


The Holly and The Ivy

by AuctaSinistra



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-20
Updated: 2019-03-20
Packaged: 2019-11-26 01:45:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18174206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AuctaSinistra/pseuds/AuctaSinistra
Summary: Sequel to "Scratch."





	The Holly and The Ivy

_Potions Master: Expert, prompt, discreet, seeks private commissions to create potions for elite clientele only. No concoction too elaborate or obscure. Bespoke creations on request. Enquiries to Daily Prophet Box 246._  
  
Severus Snape put down his quill and sat back, reading over the spiky elegant lines of his plea for some way to make enough gold to keep body and miserable fucking soul together.  
  
His options were limited more sorely by his own misanthropic nature than by the circumstances of his unemployment. He subscribed to all the wizarding publications and would have known immediately if Dumbledore had revealed the reason for his leaving Hogwarts.  
  
Instead, a discreet little story at the bottom of an inside page – the front pages, even after nearly a week, still screamed Voldemort’s demise in block letters two inches tall – regarding the start of the school year indicated that “Professor Severus Snape had retired from teaching to pursue other interests” and that he had been replaced by Bartholomew Cabot, formerly of Beauxbatons. Snape knew Cabot, had worked with him years ago and occasionally corresponded on potions matters. The man was an acceptable potions teacher; no doubt his personality – dry, but marginally more tolerant than Snape’s – would compensate, with the students, for his slightly inferior skills.  
  
In any case it was none of his business now.  
  
The tiny story also mentioned the latest Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher (a position some fools considered irrelevant now): Salome Kirkcaldy, a young former Auror, Egyptian but raised in Britain, where she had met and married Eric Kirkcaldy, another Auror, murdered six months ago by Death Eaters. A small picture of the dusky-skinned, beautiful woman was included. Snape snorted, noting they’d not found space for a photo of old Cabot. Or him.   
  
Lovely or not, she’d have to know her business very well indeed if she hoped to teach Potter something he hadn’t already learned.  
  
Snape pushed the paper away in disgust.  _Is it not possible to pass five minutes without thinking about the hopeless brat who has so bloody-mindedly, so inextricably, wound himself into your life?_  
  
He drew the parchment toward him, sealed it, and beckoned Tenebra with a whistle. The sooty owl swooped down from the rafters of the library tower and landed with a feathery thud on the long table. Snape attached the advertisement and dismissed Tenebra, satisfied he’d at least done one sensible thing in the last seven days.  
  
 _Two. You sent him back.  
  
He was going anyway.  
  
And it never crossed your mind, did it, that a few well-chosen words from you would have made him stay?_  
  
Snape rose with a curse, shoving his chair out of the way to stalk – well, nowhere, really. Just to stalk. He’d noticed a pattern in the last few days: Stop working, think of Harry, curse, snarl, and stalk about the castle until he found something else that needed doing. Pathetic.  
  
It was one of his least happy realizations – which, given his history, was saying something – that all he wanted to do was gather the foolish boy to his breast and protect him from the circus that was his life. He was not the Severus Snape he had thought he was, and that disturbed him on a deeper level than any concerns of mere pederasty. Harry was of age, adult enough in some ways that a master of rationalization of Snape’s caliber could easily overlook the years between them.  
  
In truth, when he looked at Harry, Snape didn’t see a child. He saw a powerful wizard, a beautiful young man, full of life in a way Snape had never experienced. Good, innocent – however many notches on his wand – a creature of light who, amazingly, saw something worthy in  _him._  
  
Snape snorted as he started down the stairs back into the castle proper. What better evidence that the boy was a child, a naive fool?  
  
Snape stopped on the narrow, worn stone steps, laughing acidly.  _And what does that make you, Severus?_  
  


* * *

  
  
Harry ducked into the library and found a quiet corner between stacks of the sort of dry, advanced texts few students would ever willingly peruse. The dust that rose as he plunked down in the stone window seat reassured him he was unlikely to be bothered in this abandoned nook.  
  
He opened his Arithmancy text on his knees and glanced out the window. It was a bright warm September day, the sort he’d have preferred to spend outside, even if the time had to be spent studying. But the clot of reporters, photographers and curiosity-seekers outside the gates – Dumbledore wouldn’t let them onto the grounds – was enough to keep him indoors.  
  
Where all he had to put up with was the mutterings and wide-eyed awe of his fellow students. He sighed. At least his teachers treated him the same. Those who were still here, anyway.  
  
He stared unseeing at the dancing numbers on the pages before his eyes. Who would have believed, three months ago, that Snape’s absence would create such a hole in him, such an ache inside him every waking moment?  
  
And in dreams … in dreams it was worse, because he was  _there._  Waking was an excruciating exercise in forcing layers of calm and control over the hurt and anger.  
  
Maybe … maybe if he told Ron and Hermione …  
  
Harry shook his head, still not ready for that. They were probably looking for him right now. They were worried about him, worried that killing Voldemort and his minions had traumatized him. Sometimes Harry wondered if it had. He couldn’t tell. Maybe if he could remember it, he’d be able to feel something about it other than a vague combination of relief and disbelief. Everyone around him seemed to feel more than he did, when it came to Voldemort. They all believed he was gone, and there was a kind of quiet ecstasy in the air at Hogwarts. All Harry could remember about those days was being captured, and the subsequent abuse and fear.   
  
And Snape. And that Snape was gone. Nothing else felt very real to him right now.  
  
“Excuse me.”  
  
Harry bit down on a sigh and looked up, prepared to be only as rude as necessary to get rid of whomever it was.  
  
“Oh.” He scrambled to his feet. “Professor Kirkcaldy.”  
  
The woman waved a small dusky hand to encourage him to sit back down.  
  
“I’m sorry to bother you while you’re studying, Harry,” she began. Harry thought her voice was kind of chocolately, dark, slightly rough. And she was by far the prettiest teacher they’d ever had, though she was quiet and seemed a little sad.  
  
“It’s okay,” he said.   
  
“I wanted to have a word with you, if you don’t mind, about the course schedule this year.” She drew up a hard chair from a nearby table and sat, hands resting primly on her robed knees.  
  
Surprised, Harry sat down again. “Okay.” He couldn’t possibly be in trouble already. They’d only been in class a week, and it was nothing Severus – nothing he hadn’t already learned over summer.  
  
“I’ve noticed you seem to be familiar with most of my syllabus for the year,” she said.  
  
“Um, yeah. Professor Snape gave me extra tutoring over the summer.”  _You know, helped me save the wizarding world from Voldemort. Then got sacked._  
  
Harry bit his tongue. Professor Kirkcaldy smiled at him.   
  
“Well, I was wondering if you might be willing to assist me in the classroom. Teaching is new to me, and I could use an able assistant who knows the ropes at Hogwarts and can safely skip some of the lessons.” She looked at him in sudden anxiety. “Of course I don’t want to interfere with your NEWTs preparations, Harry. It’s only that you seem so far ahead of the others. Which shouldn’t be surprising.”  
  
Harry shook his head, remembering the classes Dumbledore’s Army had held in the room of requirement, remembering how good, how fulfilling, it had been to teach the others and watch them improve. And anything that kept him too busy to mope …  
  
“I’d be happy to help, professor, if you think I really could.”  
  
A broad smile illuminated Professor Kirkcaldy’s face, rendering her even more beautiful. Harry remembered her husband had been killed by Death Eaters not too long ago, which explained why she seemed sad most of the time.  
  
“Excellent. Thank you, Harry. I’ll try not to take up too much of your study time. By the way, have you decided what you want to do when you leave Hogwarts?”  
  


* * *

  
  
Snape was interrupted in the meticulous tidying of his long-neglected tower laboratory – slightly hampered by Scratch playing around his feet – when two owls swooped in through the owl chute he’d conjured when he’d decided he was as open for business as he could be.  
  
They flew down to the owl stand beside his desk, spraying cold rainwater across it, and him, as they landed and jockeyed for purchase.   
  
Snape sighed. Rain, again. Just for a change. He’d have to make another round of the castle and catalogue the latest leaks.  
  
Fortunately, neither owl needed paying. He collected a thin roll of parchment from one and a rather thicker roll from the other, then waved them away, but both owls hooted mildly at him and remained. Clearly replies were expected.  
  
Snape unrolled the thinner of the two parchments and discovered it was a commission for a potion. He read it with relish, noting immediately that it was for a complex and marginally legal philtre, pedestrian in function, for which the unnamed subscriber was willing to pay double the going rate.  
  
Snape pulled a slip of ready parchment to him and seized a quill, tapping it precisely into the inkwell to dash off a terse assent to the commission. He was teeth-grittingly aware that he had no grounds, due to his anonymous advertisement, to demand payment before delivery. He could only create the requested potion and send it off in hopes the recipient was honest. Prepayment would have to wait until he’d established a reputation that brought the customers clamoring to him.   
  
And the sooner the better, he thought, glancing around his sparsely stocked laboratory. Between what he’d brought from Hogwarts and the produce of his own garden here at the castle, he had barely enough ingredients to produce the sort of potions likely to be requested by such wizards or witches as would comprehend the meaning of his advertisement.  
  
Snape bared his teeth as he attached his note to the first owl. Of course, should any of his early clients foolishly fail to pay for his creations … glass was as excellent a conductor of curses as it was a container of potions, and few people would suggest that Severus Snape was any less talented at the former than the latter.  
  
The first owl flew away as he unrolled the second parchment. It contained news clippings from various wizarding papers. Old news: POTTER SLAYS VOLDEMORT! – BOY WHO LIVED TRIUMPHANT – HARRY SAVES THE DAY!  
  
Further lurid headlines crowned long-distance photographs of Harry at Hogwarts, appearing anything from disgruntled to furious. In every shot he either turned away or disappeared behind something.  
  
Attached to the clippings was a single sheet of parchment with six words in a sloppy, bold hand that made Snape’s heart clench in his chest: “Can I come hide under your bed?”  
  


* * *

  
  
“Are you okay?”   
  
Harry refrained from sighing.  
  
“I’m fine, Hermione.”  
  
“You’ve hardly eaten anything,” she pressed. Ron, shoveling the last of his lunch into his face, said nothing.   
  
Harry shrugged. “Not very hungry.”  
  
“You need to keep your strength up, mate,” Ron managed to say around his final mouthful. “Quidditch starting up soon, you know.”  
  
Harry smiled. “I know.” He still hadn’t decided whether he’d bother with Quidditch this year. On the one hand it gave him fresh air and physical activity he enjoyed; on the other it seemed almost painfully pointless to him now. And he couldn’t imagine trying to discuss that with Ron or Hermione – for very different reasons, neither of them would understand – but it didn’t escape him that his list of secrets from his best friends was getting longer all the time.  
  
Ron and Hermione watched him constantly, anxiously, with no idea that their expectation he’d explode at any moment made things worse, not better. He didn’t need fuss and worry and staring. He needed calm. Matter-of-fact common sense.   
  
He needed Severus.  
  
God, he needed him.  
  
An owl, a sooty owl he didn’t recognize, flew down to land gracefully in front of Harry’s half-emptied plate. It looked at him out of one yellow eye and held out its leg. Harry exchanged puzzled glances with his friends and took the letter.  
  
He unrolled the parchment to see inside it a faded clipping covering Snape’s trial as a Death Eater, yellow journalism in more than one sense, every line of the article convicting him summarily of the basest of Death Eater perversity, despite the fact, tacked on resentfully at the very end of the article, that the Ministry cleared him of all charges.  
  
There was no note. There didn’t have to be. Harry sighed. “Point taken.”  
  
“What?” Hermione asked. “What is it?”  
  
He shook his head, letting the parchment roll back up and slipping it into a robe pocket. “Nothing. Come on. We’re going to be late for Transfigurations.” He collected his books and got up.  
  
“I don’t know what’s got into you, Harry,” Ron grumbled, more out of habit than because he really meant it, as the three of them left the great hall. “You study all the time, you’re helping the professors, you don’t want to be late. It’s like you’ve turned into Hermione.”  
  
Hermione sniffed. “He should be so lucky.”  
  
Harry laughed along with his friends and said nothing.  
  


* * *

  
  
_Hogwarts news: Harry Potter, handsome young savior of the wizarding world, has taken on the job of assisting the young and beautiful Professor Salome Kirkcaldy in the Defence Against the Dark Arts course. Harry, a year away from leaving school, no doubt has found his expertise in magical defence greatly valued by the lovely young widow. The two are much together at Hogwarts, preparing coursework and practical exams for the students. There are some close to the source who suggest Harry and the professor are becoming very good friends, something we may rejoice to see once the young man has left school—_  
  
Snape flung the paper into the fire and snarled “Incendio!”  
  
It flared and was ash in seconds, gone far more swiftly than Snape’s wild, irrational rage. He stormed out of the lab, his mind filled with the image of himself swooping down upon Hogwarts in righteous fury. The corridors echoed with the ring of his bootheels and the low buzz of his curses as he imagined tearing into that fluttery bit of fluff calling herself the Defence Against the Dark Arts professor, what the fuck did she know about it, her husband was dead from it, what the hell kind of defence was that, and here she was cosying up to Potter, latching on to him,  _fawning_  all over him, as if …  
  
Snape stopped, halted by a visceral wrongness that penetrated his anger. He looked around, wondering what it was that had caught his awareness. Corridor, bare stone, cold and clammy as always, a corridor he’d stalked a thousand times in all seasons, knowing the location of all the slick worn spots and uneven steps and ancient leaks…  
  
He spun, eyes snapping from floor to ceiling in amazement. It was pouring outside; he’d automatically stepped aside to avoid a venerable leak that, in this sort of weather, drained into the middle of this hall in a maddeningly steady drip.   
  
But it wasn’t leaking.  
  
There was no puddle on the floor – as there always was after a rainfall of this length and intensity – and, stranger still, the crack in the ceiling seemed to have disappeared.  
  
Snape immediately cast about for alien magic, but sensed none. Warily he approached the spot, seeing the shallow depression in the floor where the water had always collected. That leak had been in his family for generations; his feet were trained from childhood to take him unconsciously around it. He was almost affronted that it was gone, abandoning the place without explanation or faretheewell.  
  
Staring at the spot, Snape suddenly chuckled.  _Only you would be upset at losing a roof leak. Idiot._  
  
Perspective assailed him like vertigo, erasing thoughts of leaks extant or otherwise.   
  
What the hell had he thought he was going to do, fly off to Hogwarts in a fury of frothing jealousy and scream “Potter is MINE!” at the new Defence teacher like a spoiled child? So the boy was helping her; he’d certainly learned more than his share about Dark Arts under Snape.  
  
Snape winced, wishing he hadn’t thought of it that way, and headed back for the laboratory at a considerably more subdued pace.  
  
 _You cannot control him. You cannot prevent him having a life. Even if that life is one that ultimately leaves you behind._  
  
And it would. They’d been apart little more than two months and the boy was making new friends, taking new steps – all of them would lead him away. In a year he’d probably cringe at the memory of what he’d thought Snape meant to him.  
  
Something in his stomach uncoiled and sank its fangs into his chest from the inside. Snape rubbed futilely at the pain as he reentered his lab.  
  
Harry’s snowy owl, Hedwig, was waiting on the owl perch by his desk. Scratch lay curled on the chair, eyeing the owl as if considering pouncing.   
  
Hedwig twisted her head toward him and gave a soft hoot, and the pain in Snape’s chest shot upward, flared behind his eyes, then evaporated.  
  
He blinked fast, sparing a thought at his own patheticness that he could worry what an owl might see on his face, and went to his desk. Hedwig held out her leg, head cocked at Snape, and he took the letter, scooting Scratch to the floor and sitting down to spread the parchment on his desktop.  
  
  
  
 _Dear Severus;  
  
I hope you don’t mind me calling you that, since this is meant to be a proper letter and all, and that’s the proper way to address a friend, or so Hermione tells me.  
  
I got your note, and the hint as well. I’m actually doing okay at the moment. Classes seem to be a little too easy, really, but things have calmed down since Dumbledore made it clear he wouldn’t allow the press onto the grounds.  
  
He hasn’t spoken to me, by the way, and I haven’t spoken to him._  
  
  
  
If Harry had expected Snape to know what that signified, he was mistaken.  
  
  
  
 _I’m thinking about what I want to do when I get out of school. I hope you’ll be willing to advise me on it, although I know it’s a decision I have to make for myself. I’ll say more about it in my next letter – I don’t have a lot of time right now and I want to explain clearly, if I can.  
  
I miss you. I wasn’t going to write that, but it’s the truth. Sometimes it feels like the only truth in the world.  
  
But I’m okay. I promise. I’m studying hard. I want you to be proud of me.   
  
– Love, Harry_  
  
  
  
Snape looked up, his blurred gaze traveling the spiderwebbed, dusty walls and the shabby furniture, the sparse collection of potions ingredients on the scarred, worn shelves. His eyes came at last to rest on the Dark Mark, a faded but still malevolent brown on his inner arm, and his throat closed up.   
  
 _I want you to be proud of me._  
  
And then — only because he no longer knew how to cry — he laughed.  
  


* * *

  
  
“Wow! Is that even possible?”  
  
Harry slid his hand over the instructions on how to perform the flaying curse and glanced up at sixth-year Hufflepuff Timothy Tuttle.  
  
“Did you want something?” he asked with barest civility.  
  
“Can you do that curse?” Timothy asked, awed and unabashed. A few of his Hufflepuff friends stood in a little group at the door of the library, about 10 feet away, staring and whispering.  
  
“I’ll be happy to demonstrate if you don’t go away and let me study,” Harry said, not even bothering to try to sound threatening.  
  
Timothy went white and backed away. Harry watched him go, closing “Curses!” and leaning back in his chair, hands resting on top of the fat dusty book. Light reading, Severus would say. He watched the group of Hufflepuffs leave, then shut his eyes.  
  
He tried to tell himself it got better every day, that every day there were fewer reporters at the gates, fewer flinches and gasps when he pulled his wand out in DADA classes – fewer people treating him like a freak. It was probably even true. He took a slow calming breath. November. The term was half over. Only one more term after that, and he was free.  
  
Free of Hogwarts, at least. He knew where he wanted to go – to whom he wanted to go. But he didn’t know what he wanted to do with his life. And he had an abysmal certainty that Severus wouldn’t let him get away with that for long.  
  
“Harry?”  
  
“Yes,” he said without opening his eyes. “I can, and I plan to use it on the next person who bothers me.”  
  
He heard a laugh and realized simultaneously that he sounded like Severus. He opened his eyes.  
  
“Sorry,” Randal Jeffreys said, holding up both hands in a staying gesture. “Didn’t realize I was the last in a long line of irritating supplicants.”  
  
Harry felt himself redden a little. Randal was a seventh-year Ravenclaw, a boy Harry’d had a bit of a crush on in their sixth year, while he was still coming to terms with his own orientation. Randal reminded Harry of Bill Weasley; though his long hair was brown rather than red, he had the same easy good looks and appealing smile, and he was bright and funny. They hadn’t spoken often, though he saw Randal fairly frequently due to his being Hermione’s study partner in Arithmancy and Potions.  
  
“It’s okay,” Harry said, sitting up in his chair. “I mean, sorry about snapping at you.”  
  
Randal chuckled again. “It’s all right. I expect you just want to be left alone, after all the fuss you’ve been through.”  
  
Harry shrugged, and Randal continued.  
  
“I only wanted to ask you if you have time to give me a little bit of … well, guidance, on the mind-control curses, before our next exam. I’m a little muddy on the concept, and Hermione suggested I talk to you.” He held up a hand again. “If you’re too busy I understand, but…”  
  
“No, it’s fine,” Harry said – then realized how grudging that sounded. “I mean, it’s okay. I’m supposed to be assisting Professor Kirkcaldy anyway; it’ll be a nice change of pace to do something besides removing hexes from fifth-years. Though I’m better at the practical stuff.”  
  
Randal chuckled. “I’d say so.”  
  
Harry managed a smile of agreement. “When did you want to go over it?”  
  
Randal looked at the empty chair opposite Harry, raised an eyebrow. He was really a very handsome young man, and he had never seemed intimidated or enthralled by Harry’s reputation. “Now?”  
  
Harry smiled. “Sure.”  
  
Randal grinned. “Great.” He plunked down his textbook, sat, and opened it. “I really appreciate this, Harry,” he said. “There probably isn’t anything I can help you with in return – Hermione says you’re doing great in all your classes – but –”  
  
Harry said, “Except Arithmancy. Numbers aren’t really my strongest suit, and Hermione’s so good at it that her explanations leave me more confused than when I started.”  
  
Randal glanced up under his brows and smiled at him, and Harry felt something in his stomach tingle.  
  
“I don’t know if I can do any better than Hermione, but if you like, I’ll be glad to go over any problem spots with you. That’s only fair.”  
  
“You’re on.” Harry slid his chair around until he could read from Randal’s book. “What’s the problem?”  
  
They studied for a few hours, ’til early dark fell and a chill wintry rain began to trickle down the windows. Then they retired to a pair of soft chairs near the fire in one of the small common study areas off the library (where of course fires were not permitted).  
  
A trio of Hufflepuffs huddled in a corner studying Charms were their only companions apart from the occasional supervisory passage of Filch.  
  
Conversation gradually degenerated into a more general discussion of classes, interspersed by friendly silence.  
  
“May I ask you a sort of personal question?” Randal said eventually.   
  
Harry shrugged, taking off his glasses to rub his eyes. “You can ask.”  
  
Randal gave him a half smile of understanding. “Why did you decide not to play Quidditch this term? Not that I’m complaining, as a loyal Ravenclaw,” he added with a smirk. “It’s helped us enormously not to have to play against you. But you’re so good at it, a lot of people are wondering why you didn’t sign up.”  
  
Harry slumped back in the soft chair and stared into the fire, faintly blurred with his glasses off. He stared so long Randal finally said softly:  
  
“Hello?”  
  
Harry smiled. “I’m still awake. I guess I don’t want to think the answer’s as simple as it is. But it is. I stopped playing because I just didn’t care any more.” Not to mention the last time he’d got on his broom, the temptation to fly straight to Severus had been almost overwhelming.  
  
He put his glasses back on and glanced at Randal, who was watching him with a thoughtful expression.  
  
“You killed Voldemort and it set everyone free except you, didn’t it?” he said.  
  
Harry blinked.  
  
“ _There_  you are!”  
  
Hermione and Ron came into the study area, the former smiling, the latter scowling.  
  
“We’ve been looking for you since dinner,” Hermione said, while Ron gave Randal the evil eye. Harry, noticing it, thought he knew the reason – Ron wasn’t anywhere near good enough with his studies to be Hermione’s study partner; he was bound to be insanely jealous that this good-looking Ravenclaw boy had an in with Hermione that he did not.  
  
“Sorry to’ve kept you, Harry,” Randal said, getting up. “Thanks for your help.”  
  
“Anytime,” Harry said with a casual wave as the Ravenclaw said goodnight to them all.  
  
“Come on then,” Ron said. “I wanted to go over our Transfiguration homework before bedtime.” He glanced at Hermione and blushed, and she rolled her eyes, but Harry thought she’d turned a little pink as well. He forced himself out of the chair, gathered his books, and said, “Okay, come on.”  
  
They went back to the Gryffindor common room, laying claim to the long couch alongside one wall where they could spread their homework out and compare it.  
  
Typically Ron got bored and said, while Hermione was checking his math, “I heard McGonagall and Sinistra talking about Snape today.”  
  
Harry tried not to react. Hermione, eyes and fingers still scanning Ron’s sloppy parchment, said, “What did they say?”  
  
“It was weird,” Ron said. “Sinistra said Cabot’s a welcome change this term, and McGonagall got all snippy and said ‘Severus Snape was one of the finest potions masters this school has ever seen and we were very fortunate to have him here.’”  
  
Hermione giggled. Even Harry had to admit Ron did a good impression of McGonagall’s thin, nasal brogue.  
  
“So Sinistra said ‘Why’d he leave, then?’ And McGonagall said ‘To pursue other interests,’ and Sinistra snorted and said ‘You don’t have to pretend to me, Minerva.’”  
  
“What does that mean?” Hermione asked. Harry idly sketched his dry quill back and forth across his own parchment. For a moment the words ‘I must not tell lies’ seemed to burn red across the page. He blinked and they were gone.  
  
“Well, I donno,” Ron said. “They saw me and clammed up. But I’ve heard mum and dad talking, and it sounds like Snape maybe got the sack.”  
  
Hermione sat up, the feathery end of her quill in her mouth. “Why?”  
  
Ron shook his head. “No idea. For being a nasty Death Eating git?”  
  
Harry’s quill snapped near the tip. “Can we not talk about Snape?” he said, throwing the broken pen aside.  
  
“Oh,” Ron said, “sorry, mate. Didn’t mean to … I mean, we didn’t like him any better than you did.”  
  
Hermione said briskly. “Let’s get back to work.” Noticing Harry didn’t have a quill, she gave him one of her spares and went over his and Ron’s homework with ruthless speed and a minimum of bloodshed. Harry and Ron, wincing, made their corrections and rolled up their parchments.  
  
“Thanks, Hermione, we owe you,” Harry said dully.  
  
She waved that away. “There was almost nothing wrong with yours, Harry, you’re doing better in Arithmancy than you give yourself credit for. But Randal can probably help you with that if you want.”  
  
“Randal,” Ron sneered, then yawned. “I’m for bed. Harry?”  
  
“Go ahead,” Hermione waved Ron away. “I want to talk to Harry for a minute.”  
  
Ron blinked tiredly at them, yawned again, and surrendered.   
  
“’Kay. G’night.” He trudged wearily upstairs, Arithmancy homework shoved unceremoniously under one arm.  
  
Hermione watched him go, then asked Harry, “What were you and Randal talking about?”  
  
Harry said, “Nothing. He asked for help with DADA.” He glanced at Hermione. “What?”  
  
“Nothing,” she said. “He’s nice, Randal, isn’t he?”  
  
Harry shrugged. “He seems to be.”  
  
“And smart.”  
  
Harry said nothing.  
  
“Good looking, too,” she went on, and Harry gave her a suspicious sidelong look.  
  
“What are you going on about?”  
  
She smiled at him coquettishly. “Did you know he’s gay?”  
  
Harry felt his eyes widen and his jaw drop.  
  
“I’ll take that as a no,” Hermione said, still smiling.  
  
Harry recovered, shut his mouth, and said, “So?”  
  
She shrugged. “I was just mentioning it.” She spun about and marched away, the attitude of her very spine shouting triumph.  
  
Harry stayed by the fire, curled in a chair, thinking. The Gryffindor common room was long empty of other students before he finally got up to go to bed.  
  


* * *

  
  
_What young wizarding hero has been seen during this holiday season in the pubs and shops of Hogsmeade in the company of a good-looking Ravenclaw student, laughing and chatting and seemingly the best of friends?  
  
It appears that the Boy Who Lived may also be the Boy Who Swings Both Ways, if The Quibbler’s sources are correct about his frequent tete a tetes, both on campus and off, with a certain mysterious tall dark and handsome youth, first name Randal, who plays the Keeper position on Ravenclaw’s Quidditch team.  
  
Perhaps they are only studying, or perhaps they are just friends, though neither could be reached for comment. But our sources suggest there may be more to this relationship, as the slayer of Voldemort spreads his wings for the first time in his young life. As the Wizarding world nears the first Christmas in years without threat of destruction, we at the Quibbler are sure we are not alone in wishing for Harry Potter the compliments of the season and the best of good fortune in his endeavours, romantic or otherwise…_  
  
Snape glared at the photo of the two heavily cloaked young men leaving the Three Broomsticks, looking at one another and laughing. His hands clenched on the paper, an echo of the painful tightness in his chest, and the jar of newts’ eyes at his elbow shattered.  
  
Snape flinched, got up, cleaned up the scattered eyeballs with a spell, and flung the Quibbler into the fire.   
  
“Lying, sensationalist rag.” What in  _hell_  had possessed him to subscribe to that? Our sources, indeed. That psychotic little twit Luna Lovegood, most likely, manufacturing dirt for her raving fool of a father.  
  
Snape moved to his desk and the owl waiting there patiently, standing next to the little blue bottle that was his latest finished commission. He slid the bottle into its protective pouch and beckoned the owl, who waddled closer.  
  
Randal. Snape remembered a Randal in Harry’s year, a tall, bright boy from Ravenclaw. Good-looking, he supposed, in a bland way.  
  
He snarled out loud. The owl jumped, then ruffled its feathers and hooted reproachfully at him.  
  
“Shut up and hold still,” Snape muttered as he finished tying the potion to the bird’s leg. It flew off and he forced his mind back to work. He had three more commissions to finish today, as well as half a dozen letters to open. His business was growing surprisingly fast, though it took far less time to say yes to an order than it did to brew it, send it, and get his galleons.  
  
He worked steadily all morning, accepting or denying commissions and evaluating his stock – he was short of wolfsbane, he’d have to venture out into the garden soon, before it snowed again – then doing the preparatory work for several more commissions before pausing for lunch.  
  
He’d saved the last letter in his pile, knowing it was from Harry, both as a reward for finishing his work and as a kind of self-torture. He carried it with him downstairs to the library, conjured a simple hot luncheon, and opened the thick roll of parchment with eager dread. What would he see? Some mention of this Randal idiot? A coolly polite letter, rejection screaming between every line, but with no mention of whom he’d been rejected for?  
  
  
  
 _Dear Severus;  
  
The holidays are coming up and I’m studying hard for end of term exams. Well, that’s not true. I seem to be doing pretty well in all my classes, which gives me time to think about NEWTs and what I’m going to do with myself afterward. That is, what I’m going to do to make a living once I’m out of school.  
  
I’d rather talk to you face to face about this. Well, I’d rather talk to you face to face about anything, but … I wanted to ask you your opinion about my pursuing something along the lines of Defence Against the Dark Arts.  
  
Not becoming an Auror, though. I don’t want to work for Fudge. I don’t guess I have to explain why. I’ve even thought about teaching. I kind of enjoyed it, when I was teaching Dumbledore’s Army in secret. I don’t know if that’s the sort of pleasure you get out of teaching. I don’t know if you get any pleasure out of teaching, come to think about it. I hope we can talk about this. And a lot of other things. _  
  
  
  
Not a word about this … this … Ravenclaw twit hanging around him. Did that mean there was nothing to the rumor? Or did it mean there was so much to the rumor that Harry didn’t know how to bring it up?  
  
  
  
 _Professor Kirkcaldy said the best university for studying the Dark Arts and how to combat them is in Cairo. She’s owled for a detailed syllabus for me to look at. I’m thinking that might be the best thing, something I’m good at, something I like to do, if you can say that about DADA. But it is in Cairo, so … so I don’t know what to think about that.  
  
Please write and tell me what you think._  
  
  
  
Snape couldn’t think. He couldn’t breathe.  
  
Cairo.  _Cairo._  
  
Jesus fucking Christ. Halfway around the world. And it made perfect sense.  
  
He dropped the letter on the table, slapping in blind fury at the nearest shiny object – his goblet of wine. It tumbled, rolled and shattered, the shards scattered gleaming across the table, bright in the afternoon sunlight…  
  
Bright?  
  
Snape looked up at the tall, filthy windows – glass-cleaning was not high on his maintenance list; he did his best work by candlelight or in shadows – and stared in astonishment.  
  
They were clean. Sparkling clean. Spotlessly clean.   
  
What the fuck was going on?  
  
Snape leaped up, wand out, and stalked to the huge expanses of glass, but his strongest revealing spell uncovered not the faintest hint of sorcery, malicious or otherwise. Whatever had cleaned them had done it without leaving a trace.   
  
Perhaps it was no more than the last heavy rain.  
  
Snape shook his head, wariness knotting his stomach. That was as possible as – well, once he would have said as possible as he and Potter getting along.  
  
He took a calming breath. Perhaps it was possible, then. At the very least, there was no threat here that he could detect, and panicking at clean windows seemed a sign he was truly around the bend.  
  
 _As if this whole Potter fiasco hasn’t clearly proven your mind lost beyond hope of salvation._  
  
Snape cursed and stalked the length of the library. Then cursed to find himself doing so. Then stalked downstairs, through the Great Hall, and outside. Might as well use his angry energy to get something accomplished.  
  
The castle garden, spread on a south-facing slope of the mountain, was sprinkled with the latest snowfall and bathed in that same weak December sunlight streaming so unobstructedly through his windows.   
  
 _Cairo. For four years._  
  
There were potatoes and carrots ready to be picked and cleaned and chopped and made into soup, and a fresh young batch of wolfsbane and some slightly frost-damaged dragonswort and spearmint to be gathered and prepared for his latest orders.   
  
 _Four years. At least._  
  
Snape worked efficiently in the gathering evening shadows, warmed by the exertion as the wintry night fell. At dusk, laden with strong-smelling herbs and dirty up to his elbows, he passed through the postern gate and crossed the courtyard to reenter the castle.  
  
That was when he saw the wreath.  
  
It hung on the right-hand door, a huge circle of glistening green holly and cheerful red berries, twined round with discreet braids of golden tinsel and plump silvery bows … it was the sort of thing Dumbledore – no, Albus had no taste at all, and the wreath was, Snape had to admit, tasteful – the sort of thing Minerva might have hung on her office door at Hogwarts over the holidays.  
  
And to Snape it was the last fucking straw.   
  
He went to the Mirror.  
  
It hung on the wall outside the great hall, tall and gilded and dust-shrouded, but still glinting faintly in the light from the high windows.  
  
Formerly dust-shrouded. The damn’ thing sparkled in the golden light of the just-lit magical lamps.  
  
Snape cleared his throat. He hated this part. He hated the Mirror. Only something like this would force him to such extremity.  
  
“Mirror mirror on the wall, on your wisdom Snape doth call.”  
  
Light shivered across the surface, and the booming, spectral voice of the Mirror came as if from the air itself.  
  
“What do you want, Snape?”  
  
“What’s going on in this house?”  
  
“Not a lot. You should marry and get some kids, Snape. I’m tired of staring at empty rooms. Someone rich would be a good idea – although you’d have a hard time landing a wealthy woman unless you cleaned yourself up a bit—”  
  
“Shut up and answer my question. Things are being … changed. Moved.”  
  
“Cleaned,” the Mirror said. “Yes, I know. Irritating, isn’t it? Cleaned, dusted, repaired, replaced, food in the kitchens, holiday decorations going up all over the place … it’s almost like someone who lives here gives a damn.”  
  
Through clenched teeth, Snape said, “Mirror, what is doing it?”  
  
“You got house elves.”  
  
Snape blinked. “Nonsense.”  
  
“I’m telling you, you got house elves. You think I don’t know house elves’ work when I see it?”  
  
“But we have no more house elves.” Snape looked around the chamber as if expecting them to be sneaking up on him. He glared at the Mirror again.  
  
“Are you sure?”  
  
“I know what I see. Like I can see you need a bath and a decent meal. Maybe a good night’s sleep.”  
  
“Mind your own business,” Snape muttered. The family had gradually let all their house elves go, selling (and spelling – the transfer of a house elf required a complex ritual) their services to wealthy wizarding families as the need for cash arose. How could they possibly have overlooked one? One that had then hidden for all these years, suddenly springing to action after all this time ..? Impossible.  
  
“Everything in this house is my business, Snape,” the Mirror said. “As much as it is yours, and for a lot longer.”  
  
“Have you seen it?”  
  
“No. But you can relax. As much as you ever do, anyway. It’s nothing dangerous. Just an invisible house elf who seems to like you for some inexplicable reason.”  
  
“I don’t like mysteries,” Snape muttered. “Or invisible and uninvited guests.”  
  
The Mirror snorted, a fair imitation of Snape’s – or was it the other way ’round?  
  
“It’s not a guest, it’s a house elf. You need the help. Let it keep doing what it’s doing. If there were any danger I’d know.”  
  
Snape gazed thoughtfully at the Mirror. It was true, the Mirror was spelled to protect the castle and its residents. Before Snape had disabled some of its abilities it had been able to see through every mirror in the house, of which there was a plenitude. Even without those eyes, though, the Mirror had magical tendrils throughout the castle.  
  
“All right,” Snape said reluctantly. “Let me know if anything changes.”  
  
“Don’t tell me my job, Snape.”  
  
“Shut up.”   
  
Snape strode away and spent the next several hours conducting a thorough tour of Castle Snape, needing to know the extent of the … well, invasion, however benevolent.  
  
It was extensive indeed. The worn furniture was polished, the ancient rugs and tapestries were clean, the floors and windows were grime-free … there was more food in the kitchens, and Snape couldn’t find a single roof leak.  
  
You’ve got house elves.  
  
He couldn’t for the life of him imagine how.  
  
But when a steaming bowl of asparagus soup appeared at his elbow at 11 o’clock – while he was in the middle of writing a long, careful and very deliberately informative response to Harry – he shrugged and ate it. It was delicious.  
  


* * *

  
  
An owl – a snowy owl – awaited him on Dec. 20 as he returned to the snow-bound castle after depositing a satisfying number of Galleons into his account at Gringott’s.   
  
Snape’s throat closed as the bird hooted gently at him from the perch in the great hall. He removed his heavy outer cloak and long coat, more slowly than necessary, grateful that his hands seemed steady.   
  
 _What are you expecting? Bad news. Always._  
  
Finally he went to the owl perch and removed the note from Hedwig’s courteously extended leg.  
  
“Are you hungry?”   
  
Hedwig shook her head, then bobbed toward him as if almost daring to give him an affectionate nip.  
  
The note said only:   
  
  
  
 _Can I come for Christmas?  
  
– Harry_  
  
Snape walked up and down the drafty great hall, breathing in sporadic gulps, clutching the note, meaning to think but unable to.  
  
He knew he should say no, that went without saying. But he longed to see the damn’ irresponsible brat. He ached to see him. Hungered, a deep hunger that scared him into unthinking rage.  
  
 _No. Tell him no. He’s as full of ridiculous sentimentality at Christmas as a goose is full of stuffing. If you want him free of you, end it now._  
  
He looked at the note, crumpled painfully in his hands, and knew he could crumple Harry’s heart as easily.   
  
 _It would be for the best. You want him too much._  
  
The words escaped him, echoing faintly in the great hall despite that he’d only whispered them. “It would be for the best. For him. For me.”  
  
He had no idea – none – whether he was lying.  
  


* * *

  
  
Hedwig soared through the window as Harry and Ron were hurriedly throwing on as many clothes as possible; the dormitory was freezing in the morning. In winter, all the students got downstairs, to the warmth of the hall and breakfast, as quickly as they could.  
  
Harry yanked his Weasley sweater down over the three shirts he wore underneath and dove for Hedwig, almost ripping the letter off her leg, earning a reproachful screech from her as he hastily opened the note, flicking away an errant feather, his heart slamming against his adam’s apple.  
  
“Harry? What’s wrong?” Ron asked.  
  
The note said: “Come.”  
  
Harry felt his face split with a grin. “Nothing,” he said, and laughed out loud. “Nothing. Let’s go. I’m starved.”  
  


* * *

  
  
“So, are you coming home with me for Christmas,” Ron said as he let his levitated trunk thunk down onto the floor of the common room, “or are you going to stay here and dodge the mistletoe with McGonagall and Hooch for a couple of days before you head out?”  
  
Harry, sitting crosslegged on the sofa next to Hermione and wrapping Dobby’s Christmas gift (a tiny Gryffindor-red scarf), smiled.  
  
“I don’t know, Madame Hooch is pretty sexy, don’t you think?”  
  
“There’s no reason to stay here, mate,” Ron went on. “You’re family. You don’t need to wait ’til Christmas Day to come.”  
  
“You should go,” Hermione said gently. Her own trunk was packed and sitting near the door. “It’ll do you good to get away from here. To not be alone.”  
  
Harry rolled his eyes. “Alone? Are you kidding? With the entire wizarding press corps and half the first years following me around like I’m the pied piper or something? I could use the peace and quiet.”  
  
Both of them waited, smiling dutifully at the joke, but expectant. Harry sighed. They’d been worried about him for so long, patiently waiting all term – while he moped and took long walks and wrote letters to Severus in the middle of the night – waiting for him to share some part of his burden with them.  
  
 _And you haven’t done it. And you have to._  
  
He dreaded this, but if he loved Severus, he had to face what came with that love. Now was as good a time as any to confess – everyone was going their separate ways until Boxing Day, and he didn’t want to have to make this confession at the Weasleys’ then, surrounded by celebrating and uncomprehending red-heads.  
  
“Ron. Hermione.”  
  
Already attentive, his friends became visibly wary.  
  
“I have something to tell you. Something important. I want you to please listen to me.”  
  
“Of course we’ll listen,” Hermione began, while Ron nodded.  
  
“I mean it,” Harry repeated, knowing in his sunken stomach that it was useless. “I want you to listen and not make snap judgments.”  
  
“Harry, mate, you’re worrying me here,” Ron said.  
  
Harry sighed. Gryffindor. Plunge in, get the worst over.  
  
He blurted, “I’m spending Christmas with Snape.”  
  
Ron laughed out loud. Hermione scowled.  
  
“Yeah, very funny,” Ron said.  
  
Harry shook his head, slow and determined. “I’m not kidding. I’m sorry it’s taken me this long to tell you both, but I didn’t know how.”  
  
“What, he’s adopted you?” Ron cracked. Hermione hit him, hissed:  
  
“Ron!”  
  
“No,” Harry said, waiting for it to sink into Ron’s head as it had obviously already sunk into Hermione’s.   
  
She whispered, “Harry, you’re not …”  
  
Harry nodded. “Yes. I am. We are.”  
  
Her eyes were as round as Ron’s now, but with comprehension. “Harry. You’re  _not_.” Ron looked at her, then at Harry, bewildered.  
  
Harry sighed. “Hermione. I am. We are. And I’m spending Christmas with him.”  
  
Hermione took a deep breath.  
  
“What are you—” Ron began, but Hermione stopped him.  
  
“Start from the beginning, Harry,” she said, sounding rather like McGonagall.  
  
 _They don’t understand. There’s no way they could. You owe them the story._  
  
“You both know Se – Snape was tutoring me over the summer,” he began.   
  
Silence.  
  
“Well, we … we talked. We worked and we talked and I studied and asked questions and he answered me and … and he helped me. He was there for me. He talked to me. He accepted me.”  
  
“Harry…” Ron’s rumble of dawning realization was silenced, again, by Hermione.  
  
“That’s a normal teacher-student relationship, Harry,” she snipped. “What else is going on?”  
  
Ever the Gryffindor, Harry saw no point in dissembling. “And I love him, and I’m spending Christmas with him.”  
  
“What!” Ron roared. Hermione winced, touched Ron’s arm to silence him, and said carefully:  
  
“Love him? Or are you  _in_  love with him?”  
  
Harry shrugged. “Both. I want to be with him. I asked him if I could come for Christmas and he said yes.”  
  
“Harry…” Ron moaned, red-faced and incoherent with disbelief. “This is not funny. It’s not the least bit funny. It’s making me sick.”  
  
“Ron,” Hermione snapped. “He’s not kidding.”  
  
Harry sat back and looked at his friends. “I’m not. I’ve spent three months with him. Nearly every day. I know him better, I understand him better. I understand a lot of things better.”  
  
“Harry,” Hermione said softly. “Did he … did he seduce you?”  
  
Harry laughed. “You sound like Yoda!”  
  
Hermione blushed and Ron paled.   
  
“Hermione,” Harry said, intense, “he taught me. He talked to me. We became friends. I know how it sounds. I’m not Confunded or insane. At least I don’t think so. I think I’m just … growing up, or something. Anyway, he helped me, he protected me, he told me to piss off every time I tried to make a move on him—”  
  
Ron groaned. “Harry, stop it, you can’t be saying this—”  
  
“—and I love him, and I’m going to spend Christmas at his castle, and that’s all.”  
  
“Harry…” Hermione was still staring hard at him. “Are you two ..?”  
  
She blushed and Harry laughed. “Long distance? Hardly.”  
  
“Thank Christ for that,” Ron breathed.  
  
“But we have, and we will, if I have anything to say about it,” Harry finished. Then he sat back and waited.  
  
Softly Hermione said, “This is why he left, isn’t it? He didn’t quit, he was fired. Because he…” She couldn’t say it.  
  
“Not because  _he_ ,” Harry snapped. “Because  _I_. I pushed. He didn’t do anything wrong.” He dropped Dobby’s present and got up, needing to move so he wouldn’t start shouting. “I know exactly what you’re thinking. I knew you’d think it. But it’s not true. He didn’t do anything. I did it. We became … friends. And I wanted more. He said no.  _I_  pushed.  _I_  got him into trouble.  _I_  got him fired. I didn’t mean to, but it was my fault. The only things that were wrong were  _my_  fault.” He glared at them, his two best friends, staring at him, still in shock, obviously worried.  
  
“Harry, he was your  _teacher_ ,” Hermione said. “It was – ”  
  
“I  _know_!” Harry exploded. Hermione winced and Harry turned away, venting at the walls so he wouldn’t be screaming in her face. “I know it wasn’t … appropriate, or whatever word you want to use. But I’m not five years old. I wanted him, I still want him. He didn’t do anything to me. He didn’t Confund me or use Imperius or a potion or tricks or pretty words or any of the things you’re thinking because you can’t imagine how I could possibly love him.” Gulping in a breath, he turned to them. “I’m not a child and he didn’t seduce me. I love him.”  
  
Ron shook his head, his eyes a stunned blank. Hermione said haltingly, “Does … does he love you?”  
  
That stopped Harry.  
  
“I don’t believe this, I don’t believe this is happening …” Ron moaned softly.  
  
“Harry?” Hermione overrode Ron’s chant.  
  
Harry shrugged. “I don’t know.”  
  
“But you know he’s willing to have sex with you?” she pressed.   
  
Fury exploded in Harry’s brain. “ _No!_ ”  
  
Hermione flinched backward on the sofa and Ron protectively moved closer to her, standing behind the sofa.  
  
“That’s not it,” he shouted at her. “God  _damn_  it, why won’t anyone pay attention to what I’m saying? Why won’t anyone believe I’ve got a brain in my goddamned head and that maybe, just maybe, I have the faintest idea what the fuck I’m doing? Why can’t anyone believe he’s not an evil manipulative bastard who seduced the stupid bloody Boy Who Lived? That maybe he’s a human being? And maybe I’m one too?”   
  
Harry gasped in a shaky breath, close to sobbing in frustrated rage, and stopped to stare into his friends’ white faces.   
  
Biting down, he snarled, “ _Why_  won’t anyone  _listen_  to me except  _him_?”  
  
He stormed away from his friends in disgust, stomped upstairs, gathered his Firebolt and his backpack and stormed back down, eager to get the hell away.  
  
Hermione said softly, “Harry.”  
  
 _Don’t stop._  But he couldn’t do it. They’d stood by him through too much. He stopped, clutching the Firebolt as if expecting he’d have to defend himself with it.  
  
Ron and Hermione came to stand in front of him, both of them still looking stunned.  
  
“Harry,” Hermione began, her eyes full of tears. “We don’t understand …”  
  
His hands tightened on his broom and pack, but Harry forced himself not to speak, not to scream at them.  
  
“But we love you,” she went on. “We’re your friends no matter what.”  
  
Speaking through clenched teeth, Harry said, “Then sooner or later you’re going to have to understand.”  
  
Hermione started to speak, stopped. Nodded.  
  
“You … you still coming for Boxing Day, mate?” Ron said with a ghastly attempt at a smile.  
  
Harry stared down at the Firebolt, clutched in his bloodless fist, for a long moment before looking at Ron. He supposed his own answering smile wasn’t much less pathetic than Ron’s.   
  
“I’ll be there,” he said, feeling the tension in the air edge down.  
  
“Happy Christmas,” he said, as if to two strangers, and marched past them, hearing Hermione’s whispered echo of those words as he left the common room.  
  


* * *

  
  
Snape paced the circular confines of the southernmost tower parapet, chilled, if not to the bone, at least to the depth that his skin seemed to’ve gone crackly and numb. Heavy cloud cover promised more snow, but his eyes weren’t on the sky. Instead he scanned the white-blanketed mountainside and the dark ribbon of road that led from it back to civilization, watching for movement while with every icy inhalation he called himself a fool for being so ridiculously eager.  
  
He was so busy staring and chiding himself that he started when something appeared in midair, a tiny shape zooming toward him and rapidly resolving itself into the red-cloaked, ruddy-cheeked Boy Who Lived, flying at top speed on his broom.  
  
Snape stepped back from the parapet as Harry slowed, did a loop, and descended. He hovered the Firebolt a few feet away from Snape, hopped off, and let the broom fall into his hand, grinning.  
  
“Ta-da! A lot better than hiking up the mountain, isn’t it?”  
  
Snape harrumphed.  
  
“The melodrama of your arrival, Mr. Potter, is exceeded only by its recklessness—”  
  
Snape was buffeted into silence by the impact of around 12 stone of Harry Potter, arms wrapped tight around his neck, racing heart thumping against his chest.  
  
“ _God_  I’m glad to see you,” Harry said in his ear.  
  
“It is physically impossible,” Snape said, catching the breath Harry’d knocked out of him, “for you to see me from this vantage, Mr. Potter.” He let his own arms creep, as if reluctantly, around Harry’s solid warm body. Harry settled against him and held him tighter.  
  
“I missed you,” he murmured.  
  
“And a good thing, at the speed you were flying,” Snape said.  
  
Harry leaned back to look at Snape’s wind-reddened face. “Toss me a crumb, here, or I’ll be forced to mention the fact that you’re up here in the cold watching for me.”  
  
A flicker of consternation, erased by composure. Then a tiny half-smile.  
  
“It is good to see you,” Snape admitted.  
  
Harry grinned and kissed him, needy and awkward, as if they’d never kissed before. After the first shock of contact, Snape tilted his head – clumsy boy – and their open mouths melded, warm familiarity and thrilling novelty mixed like the headiest of potions.  
  
Harry drew back abruptly, gasping for air.  
  
“Worth it,” he breathed. “Worth it.”  
  
“Worth what, precisely?” Snape heard the purr in his voice, but considered it well indulged in as it made Harry sigh and wriggle closer.  
  
“Everything.”  
  
Snape rested his head against Harry’s, shook it.  
  
“Why?” he murmured, wonder coloring the word.  
  
Harry smiled, knowing what Snape was asking and feeling good that, of the two of them, he was the one who felt most sure of that, if nothing else.  
  
“Because,” he said, the word a complete sentence.  
  
Snape huffed a laugh against his neck. He felt Harry shift a little, saw his wand rise up out of the corner of one ever-wary eye, and felt the tingling gut-yank of apparation.  
  
When they reappeared in his candle- and firelit bedchamber, Snape gave the pleased-looking idiot Boy Who Lived a head-tilted glare.  
  
Harry shrugged, arms still wrapped around Snape.  
  
“It’s the only room I’ve ever apparated to here. I’ve been practicing, but I’m not all that good at it yet.”  
  
“Perhaps you might consider spending less time posing for photos and signing autographs,” Snape stroked both hands along Harry’s hard-muscled back as he spoke, wiping the sting of his words away, “and more time studying.”  
  
“I  _am_  studying,” Harry countered. “Well, not at this moment.” The mild irritation melted from his face as he looked up at Severus, and one Quidditch-roughened palm rose to touch that stern face.  
  
“I’ve been trying to keep busy,” he added, expecting Severus to know why.  
  
Snape glimpsed a spot on the hand exploring his jaw. He caught hold, drew it away to focus on the design. Inked – tattooed, evidently – in green between Harry’s thumb and forefinger was a series of numbers and symbols intricately filling a figure eight.  
  
“What is this?” he said, hearing the echo of past detentions in his tone. Harry, his eyes, like Snape’s, on the small tattoo, said:  
  
“It’s an Arithmancy charm. To …” He gulped the rest of his words down at Snape’s arched brow.  
  
“Sorry. I expect you … er … know all about Arithmancy,” he said. Snape waited, still holding Harry’s tattooed hand in his.  
  
“I’ve been studying with Randal Jeffreys. A Ravenclaw. You might remember him – he’s a good student, unlike me.” He smiled. “Anyway, he’s been helping me with Arithmancy, and, well …” He shrugged. “We were talking about protective charms, and one thing led to another…” He winced as Snape suddenly squeezed his hand.  
  
“Did it?” he asked acidly.  
  
“Ow …” Harry’s mild protest trailed away as Severus bent nearer, his breath caressing the skin of Harry’s neck and face.   
  
“Perhaps it’s time you got another lesson. From a  _real_  master.”  
  
His voice created turbulent currents in that warm air, and Harry shivered.  
  
“Did you by any chance, in these intensive Arithmancy  _studies_ —” He gave the word sharp emphasis – “discover the spell to subtract a person’s clothing from his body?” He whispered something to the air and Harry’s skin shivered as it was separated from every last stitch of clothing.  
  
“You made that up,” he accused, half-laughing. The laugh died as Severus’ hands mapped his skin, warm and assured, firm down his sides and around his arse, pulling their bodies hard together.  
  
“Or the spell to add an erection?” Severus growled, covering Harry’s mouth, his own demanding, his tongue predatory, snatching Harry’s breath and thought and carrying it away.  
  
When Harry came back to earth – only because he had to break that devouring kiss or suffocate – he realised Severus had picked him up (Gods, the man was  _strong_ ) and was carrying him, fingers digging into his arse, backward to the bed.  
  
Where Snape dropped him. One startled bounce and Harry braced himself, staring breathless and aroused as Severus loomed scowling over him.  
  
“Okay,” Harry said. “You have my undivided attention.” He was proud of himself for the pun under fire, as it were, but Severus didn’t even smile, his smoky glare fixing Harry in place as he shrugged off his robes.  
  
“Turn over.”  
  
It was an order, and, after a split second of astonishment, Harry complied, anticipation burning like a sudden gulp of whisky through his body. The counterpane was cool and soft on his stomach and hungry cock, with a faint spicy Severus-scent. Beyond that, his attention was focused behind him, a layer of extra sensation across his bare back and arse.  
  
His legs were pushed apart and he took the opportunity to grind his erection into the mattress a few times.  
  
“Hold still.” Another command. Harry grinned into the counterpane and complied, sighing as hands gripped his thighs just below the curve of his cheeks. He felt Severus’ thumbs draw at the sensitive flesh between, then …  
  
“Oh!” He tried to still the astonishment shuddering through his core as Severus tongued his cleft. Harry’s entire body flushed and shivered at the exquisite invasion. No command of Snape – of Voldemort himself – could have kept him still or silent. The blood surged into his cock and he writhed under Severus’ wet, teasing strokes. Hands fisted into the covers, he whimpered and humped the bed helplessly.  
  
“God … Severus …” He choked out the desperate plea, though he could never have said what he was pleading for. “Oh …  _god_  …” He couldn’t breathe, he was going to explode, he was going to die –  
  
And the incredible caresses stopped. He sobbed in a lungful of air, desolate and relieved – and Severus grabbed his hips and slid into him, a slick, ruthless glide that forced a throaty cry from his chest. Back arched, he reached down to slide his hand under his own belly, desperate to come, and Severus grabbed his wrist, iron-hard.  
  
“No.” Bent over Harry’s back, he thrust, pinning Harry’s body under his as his hand pinned Harry’s hand.  
  
“Only me,” Severus hissed again, his breath fiery on Harry’s back. “You will feel  _me_.” He thrust, hard, slow, overwhelming Harry with pain-pleasure – irresistible, whichever it was. He rode that sensation as Severus rode him, without control or thought, until he felt his own orgasm swell and burst, inside him, outside him, and Severus drove even harder, deeper, and crushed Harry’s prisoned hand in his, groaning in release.   
  
Harry gasped at the sudden needling pain in his hand – gone in an instant, leaving only delirious, sweaty fulfillment. He let himself go limp, breathing only as deeply as necessary, as the singing nerves and sinews of his body brought their music to a gentle, gradual close.  
  


* * *

  
  
Severus’ jealous anger faded as his heart and breathing calmed. He looked at Harry, at the sprawled gasping body spotted with red marks, and his insides clenched.  
  
“Harry …”  
  
Harry turned over slowly, limp and wholly disheveled, half-lidded eyes glittering up at Snape as a languid smile spread over his flushed face.  
  
“Come here,” he purred. Snape inched closer and Harry grabbed him, pulling him down onto the bed and squeezing him like a pillow.   
  
“God, that was …” Harry sighed, then giggled, drunk on satiety. “You’re really … incredible at this.”  
  
“I’m so glad I pass your rigorous standards,” he teased weakly. Harry’s hold eased and Snape ran his fingers down the boy’s arm. “You’ll feel differently in the morning. I … I should have been more –”  
  
“If you’d been more  _anything_  I’d be dead,” Harry said, stretching carefully.   
  
Snape shook his head; it didn’t salve his conscience that Harry apparently liked it a bit rough. He hadn’t done it to please, but to possess. And worse, he couldn’t admit it.  
  
 _You’re already starting to hurt him and lie to him._  
  
“Hey …” Harry said softly, holding up the hand Snape had crushed during lovemaking. The Arithmancy tattoo was gone, leaving behind only a slight redness.  
  
Snape said nothing, but Harry looked at him for a long moment of canny silence.  
  
“Oh well,” he said at last, flexing the now-unmarked hand. “I didn’t need it anyway.”  
  
The fist in Snape’s stomach opened, releasing his intestines to lie relaxed in their place again. He gathered Harry’s hand in his own, brought it to his chest, and inhaled a deep breath of their commingled air.  
  
Harry smiled, and Snape marveled, knowing he was understood and, more astoundingly, forgiven.  
  


* * *

  
  
“I told Ron and Hermione.”  
  
Harry’s voice gently split the silence. Snape, who’d thought Harry asleep, absorbed words and tone at his leisure.  
  
“Told them what, exactly?” he said. Neither man shifted from their entwinement.  
  
“That I was coming here for Christmas. That I was in love with you.” Harry felt Severus’ body un-relax. “Does that … um, should I have talked to you first?”  
  
Snape shook his head against the top of Harry’s. “No. They are your friends. I wouldn’t have you lie to people more than is absolutely necessary.”  
  
Harry had to smile at that; only a Slytherin would assume lying to be necessary.  
  
“And how would you describe their reaction?” Snape went on.  
  
Harry considered it. “Bad. Not as bad as I’d expected, but bad.”  
  
Snape nodded; he’d have been surprised to hear otherwise. “Others, who are not your friends, will take it worse,” he cautioned.  
  
“Fuck them,” Harry said. “What’s the rest of the wizarding world ever done for me?”  
  
“You should be more concerned with what they might do to you, should you fall from grace. Heroes are not always forgiven their feet of clay.”  
  
Harry rose up on one elbow, hair tumbling into his face. “If I say I don’t know what you’re talking about, are you going to suddenly realize how young and stupid I am and kick me out of bed?”  
  
Snape examined his face, the lines of tiredness and the sleepy post-coital pleasure around his eyes and mouth.  
  
“Surely you don’t imagine you’ve kept either your youth or your stupidity a secret from me?” he said. Harry made a snarling face and wrapped his hands around Snape’s neck, squeezing gently for only an instant before he bent to draw Snape’s lower lip into his mouth.  
  


* * *

  
  
On the way to a late and much-needed supper, Snape tried to hurry Harry past the great hall, where the most obvious changes were presently … most obvious. But Harry – typically contrary – stopped in the doorway.  
  
“Wow!” He stared up at the beautifully decorated tree, easily 12 feet tall and gleaming with real fairy lights.   
  
“Very nice.”   
  
“Er, yes.”  
  
“I didn’t think you were one for Christmas decorating,” Harry remarked, sauntering into the hall to look at the wreaths and holly and tinsel, the blazing fire and bowls of fruits and cakes and candies scattered ‘round as if in preparation for a party.  
  
The bottom of the tree rustled and a red glass bulb shot across the rug, followed by a scampering and very intent cat.  
  
“Hey…” Harry stepped toward the sleek grey feline currently batting the hapless ornament under the table. “Scratch! You stupid hairball.”  
  
The cat abandoned the bulb and looked at Harry, clearly surprised, then mrowed and trotted over to rub himself thoroughly around Harry’s shins, purring maniacally.  
  
“He looks great,” Harry said, bending to skritch the affectionate beast. “You’re taking good care of him.”  
  
Snape watched, cleared his throat. “Hm. Well, the fact of the matter is …”  
  
“In fact,” Harry said. “The whole place looks great.” He glanced expectantly at Snape.  
  
Snape looked uneasily around, as if the tidiness and decorations and well-fed cat were something to be ashamed of.   
  
“Yes. I can take no credit for it, however. I seem to have … acquired a house elf somewhere. I haven’t …” He looked at Harry. “ _What_  are you looking so pleased with yourself about, Potter?”  
  
Harry stood straight and grinned. “Happy Christmas.” Scratch threw himself on the floor at Harry’s feet, still demanding attention.  
  
Snape boggled.  
  
Harry laughed. “I never thought I’d see you at a loss for words.”   
  
Snape still thought he caught on quicker than most would. “You did this?”   
  
“I knew if I told you you’d just refuse, you’re so damn’ proud. So I asked Dobby to quit working at Hogwarts and come here and secretly make the place livable. He said at first he figured if you caught him you’d throttle him, but he thinks you’re okay with it now. Are you?”  
  
“You  _gave_  me a house elf?”  
  
Harry glanced around him, a little embarrassed. “Well, Dobby’s been dying to … um … do me a favor, you know, pay me back for freeing him? And Hogwarts has plenty of house elves already, so … it seemed like the perfect Christmas present.”  
  
“A freed house elf? What if he takes it into his head to leave?” Not that Snape particularly cared. “After all, I cannot pay him – and you shall not,” he added when Harry started to speak.  
  
“Yes, I got that part, stiff-necked, family pride, blah blah,” he said instead, ignoring Snape’s glower. “Dobby  _could_  leave, but he isn’t likely to, to be honest. You know how house elves are. He loves to keep busy, and he loves helping me.”  
  
“But he isn’t helping you.”  
  
“Isn’t he?” Harry said. “He’s doing what I wish I could do. Well, not all of it – ”  
  
Snape rolled his eyes. “That was an image I could have done without, thank you.”  
  
Scratch sank his claws into Harry’s boots and pulled himself closer, wrapping his body around Harry’s feet and biting the shoe-leather. Harry reached down to pick him up and Scratch abruptly transformed into a limp hank of contentedly purring grey fur.  
  
“Idiot,” Harry cooed to the beast as he held him to his chest. He looked at Severus.  
  
“Can we argue about this over dinner?” he said, a smile lurking at the edges of his mouth.  
  
“No,” Severus said.  
  
Harry affected a pout; he knew that even if he were good at it, which he wasn’t, Severus wouldn’t fall for it. “No arguing, or no dinner?”   
  
Severus sighed. “Come on, then.”  
  
Harry bent his head and grinned against Scratch’s heavily vibrating side as he followed Severus out of the hall.  
  


* * *

  
  
Harry stopped in the doorway of the dining room, dumping Scratch to the floor. His eyes widened, then turned to Severus. “Expecting another guest or two? Or … fifty?”  
  
The long table groaned under the weight of a dinner vast enough to feed a castle full of people. Plates glistened, crystal glimmered, silver gleamed, and the scent was a hundred different kinds of heaven.   
  
Snape rolled his eyes. “Idiotic, overenthusiastic, wasteful –”  
  
As if summoned by the diatribe, Dobby popped into being, bowing low before Snape and Harry.  
  
“Harry Potter! Dobby is so happy to be seeing you!” Dobby’s eyes shone and his body trembled in ecstasy. “Happy Christmas, Harry Potter, Professor sir!” He stood aside and gestured that they should sit. “Come and be eating your Christmas eve dinner, sirs! Roast beef! Yorkshire pudding! Peas and potatoes and rolls and soup! Wine and salad and cheeses!”  
  
“No dessert?” Harry said with a dryness worthy of Severus, who snorted a subdued laugh.  
  
Dobby bowed again. “Dobby hopes you enjoy it, sirs.”  
  
He vanished and the two men settled in at one end of the feast.  
  
“I won’t need to eat again for a week,” Harry said, starting in on the soup with gusto. Everything was delicious, and after taking the edge off his stomach’s hunger (and passing Scratch a few tidbits under the table whenever the cat touched a paw to his knee and brrred at him), Harry slowed down and attempted to assuage his hunger for information from the man picking typically at his food across the table.  
  
“Severus?”  
  
He got a glance and a mildly arched eyebrow, which he took as an invitation to continue.  
  
“Um … can I ask … how are you ..?” He glanced significantly around the room.  
  
“Supporting myself?” Snape finished, and Harry blushed. “Are you worried I won’t be able to keep my young lover in the opulent style to which he has become accustomed?”  
  
“Prat. I’m just worried about you.”  
  
“You need not be,” Snape began, spooning another precise measure of soup between his lips.  
  
“I  _know_  that,” Harry cut in, hotly. “I know I don’t  _need_  to. I just do. Because I give a shit. I don’t worry because I enjoy it, or because you asked me to, or because I need to. I worry because I love you.”  
  
Spoon stilled in mid-descent, Snape watched him until the echoes of his shouts died down.  
  
“Are you finished?” he asked, very mildly, setting the spoon in his bowl.  
  
“I sounded like Molly Weasley, didn’t I?” Harry said sheepishly. “Next I’ll be telling you to be sure to take a coat with you in case it gets cold.”  
  
Snape said, “Do not attempt to coddle me. I shall resent it – all the more should I have need of it – and eventually I would come to hate you for it.”  
  
Harry smiled, surprising both of them. “You know, I think I understand that. I’ll try not to be an idiot about it. But you have to do one thing.”  
  
“I  _have_  to?” Snape echoed.  
  
“I’m not joking,” Harry said, so grave, so intent both men felt shivers up their spines. Neither, of course, would admit to such a thing. “I don’t care what you say or do. You can’t be meaner to me than you’ve been, and I don’t expect you to turn mushy on me. I don’t want to hear any evasions or justifications when I do something because I care. It may be something stupid, and I’m prepared to hear about that. But you had damned well better not ever deny that I love you.”  
  
Snape shook his head. “You are so young. I’m not denigrating what you feel—” He hastened to add when Harry swelled toward argument. “It’s just that … you’re wholehearted about everything, Harry. I’ve forgotten what that’s like.”  
  
“Deal with it,” Harry said. “I’m prepared to deal with you as you are.” He bit defiantly into a fresh, buttered roll.  
  
“But that wholeheartedness will change as you get older,” Snape countered reasonably. “Shades of grey come in your mind and heart well before they show up in your hair.”  
  
Harry chewed, swallowed, smiled. “Can we not hold the funeral for this relationship just yet? I know I’m young and stupid and you’re old and jaded. We’ve been through this. Let’s take it one day at a time, okay?”  
  
“I am  _not_  jaded,” Snape muttered, raising his spoon again.   
  
Harry arched his brow, a deliberate, insolently good imitation.   
  
“I’m bitter,” Snape admitted, sipping his soup. Harry grinned.  
  


* * *

  
  
After dinner, Harry asked for a tour of the castle. Snape sighed and acquiesced, starting in the hall to get the worst of it over with.  
  
“So,” the Mirror observed. “ _This_  is why you haven’t found yourself a nice respectable witch and settled down to breed some skinny, pasty little Snapelings.”  
  
Harry boggled. Flushed, half-mortified, half-angry. That amused Snape more than anything the Mirror had ever done.  
  
“Mirror, this is Harry Potter.”  
  
The Mirror muttered, “Might have guessed you were a shirt-lifter. Last of the Snapes.” Then, louder, “Still, he’s pretty enough, isn’t he? How do you do, Harry Potter?”  
  
“Fine.” Harry, seething, looked at Snape, who briefly explained the Mirror’s history.  
  
“Wow,” Harry admitted, much impressed.  
  
To the Mirror Snape said, “He is to be accorded full welcome as a member of this household.”  
  
“As you wish.” The Mirror managed a tone of petulant obedience.  
  
As Snape steered Harry away, the boy said, “Member of the household? But…”  
  
“It doesn’t mean I expect you to be living here henceforth,” Snape said. “The words are a formula to require the Mirror to accept your orders – particularly as regards your privacy.” He watched as Harry worked that out.  
  
“All the mirrors in the place?” he asked when he had.  
  
“Not only the mirrors, but yes.”  
  
“Christ. Thanks for the warning,” Harry muttered. As they walked away he said, “You have no family, then?”  
  
“If I had, they would be here, don’t you think, or I there, wherever ‘there’ was, on this momentous day?”  
  
Harry said nothing.  
  
After a moment Snape said, “Thank you for not spouting some ridiculously sentimental nonsense such as  _‘I’ll_  be your family, Severus.’” He spoke the words in a girly whine.  
  
Harry chuckled softly. “I was thinking it.”  
  
“I know you were.”  
  
“Do you mind?”  
  
Snape harrumphed. “I suppose not.”  
  
They headed next for the library. After a few minutes of silent traversing of cold stone corridors, Harry ventured, “So does that mean … I mean, would it be all right if I wanted to live here?”  
  
He felt the faintest hesitation from Snape, though the man didn’t pause in his measured strides.  
  
“ _Live_ , and  _here_ , are contradictions,” Snape said sourly. “You may not use this place to hide from the real world.”  
  
“Oh, only  _you_  have that privilege?” Harry blurted, then flinched at his temerity. Snape, however, said:  
  
“Precisely.”  
  
Instantly contrite, Harry said, “No. I didn’t mean that. After everything you’ve done and everything that’s been done to you, you deserve to tell the rest of the wizarding world to fuck off.”  
  
“Do you plan to do the same?” Snape asked.  
  
Harry smiled. “You’re avoiding my question.”  
  
Snape sighed, almost inaudibly. “If you were not welcome here, I would not have instructed the Mirror to treat you as a member of the household. That said, I would be severely disappointed to see you ensconced in this dusty hole without a thorough education and some faint idea of what you plan to do with your patently overrated life and deeply questionable talents.”  
  
Harry grinned, looked sidelong at Severus as they reached the library doors. “How do you remember what you’re saying when you use such long sentences?”  
  
Snape shook his head. “Idiot.” He opened the doors. “This is called a library. It contains books, which contain knowledge. Do try to keep up, Potter.”  
  
Harry just smiled.  
  


* * *

  
  
Harry touched Snape’s shoulder. He didn’t move. A slight shove. Still nothing.  
  
“Severus?” Harry shook him. “Come on. Wake up.”  
  
Snape groaned, turned over, blinked narrowly at the rumpled young man grinning down at him. Blinked even more narrowly at the early morning light stabbing at him through the windows.  
  
“What time is it?”  
  
“It’s Christmas,” Harry said. “Wake up.”  
  
“Good God,” Snape groaned, closing his eyes and flopping onto his back. “Children. I forgot about Christmas and children.”  
  
Harry prodded him gently. “Oh, come on. This is our first Christmas as … well, whatever we are … and –”  
  
“Potter, if you cannot let me sleep until a civilized hour you may find yourself some other place to lay your echoingly empty head at night.” Snape turned over and thumped his face back into the pillow in a very final manner, lifting one hand to wave Harry away. “If you must shake presents and eat Christmas cake at this ungodly hour, you may certainly do so without my assistance.”  
  
Harry frowned at the back of Snape’s head. Then said, “Presents? I have  _presents_?”  
  
“Go away,” Snape muttered, his voice muffled by pillow.  
  
Harry grinned, got up, threw on his dressing gown, grabbed a small box from his jeans pocket, slipped it and his wand into his robe, and tiptoed out of the room, shutting the door silently. In the corridor he whispered for Dobby. When the house elf appeared, Harry asked him to bring some coffee to Snape, then hurried downstairs. This was  _their_  first Christmas, and he for one wanted to savor every second of it.  
  
He paused in the arched doorway for a bit to admire the tree again. Dobby had really outdone himself. The room was every child’s fantasy for Christmas. The canny elf had even set up a breakfast table across from the tree, laden with eggs and sausage and kippers and scones and tea and juice and everything a hungry man could want.   
  
First, though, Harry advanced on the tree, still unable to really believe Snape had gotten him gifts. But there were  _three_  boxes under the branches. The first two were a large square box with red paper and a smaller box in green paper. Between these two boxes lay Scratch, sound asleep, with a red glass bulb lying under one front paw; obviously the animal was addicted to the many wicked delights of Christmas ornaments.  
  
The third gift, a very small upright box, narrow, wrapped in glittering gold, screamed “potion bottle” to Harry. Harry grinned, trying to picture Snape wrapping presents, like some sort of dark and demented Santa’s elf.  
  
He shook his head, overwhelmed. That Severus had gotten him gifts …  _gifts_. It wouldn’t matter if every one of them was sternly unromantic and practical (which they probably were).  
  
“Is something being wrong, Harry Potter?” Dobby asked softly.  
  
Harry started; he’d never get used to the house elf’s silent appearing and disappearing acts.  
  
“No, Dobby,” he said, knuckling his eyes. “I’m very happy.”  
  
“Happy Christmas, Harry Potter,” Dobby said rather solemnly. “Professor sir is drinking his coffee. Dobby was thinking you should know.”  
  
Harry nodded. “Thanks, Dobby.” The house elf popped away and Harry quickly drew the tiny box out of his robe pocket, tapped it with his wand, and watched as it grew to about three feet square. He opened it, pulled out the presents he’d got Severus (nowhere near so neatly wrapped, of course) and set them quickly under the tree. This activity woke Scratch, who merely blinked at Harry (not unlike Snape had done, though less bad-temperedly) and curled his body tighter around the bulb before going back to sleep.  
  
Harry reshrank the other box and put it aside, then sat at the table to have a cup of tea, happily gazing at the magnificent tree and the evidence, underneath it, that he and Severus were together.  
  
Fifteen minutes later, Snape walked into the room, coffee mug in one hand, the Daily Prophet in the other.  
  
Harry looked up, but before he could speak, Snape dropped the Prophet on the table with a thud like an executioner’s axe.   
  
“Happy Christmas.”  
  
Puzzled, Harry picked it up. He scanned the front page, his stomach sinking, as Snape turned away.  
  
 _What handsome brown-haired young Ravenclaw Adonis has been seen snogging with the very eligible Boy Who Lived in the shadows at Hogwarts? It seems the slayer of Voldemort has found something worth living for at last, if our sources…_  
  
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Harry snarled, slapping the paper onto the table next to his tea. “I can’t take a leak without that Skeeter bitch hovering…”  
  
“So it’s not true,” Snape didn’t ask.  
  
Harry looked at Snape’s rigid back. “It’s true that Randal and I are friends.”  
  
“And?” The word was a command to confess.  
  
“And that …” Harry swallowed. “And that I kissed him. I mean, we kissed.”  
  
Snape flung his coffee mug – so abrupt, so fast that Harry flinched away – against the wall next to the holly-bedecked fireplace, where it shattered, bleeding black coffee down the wall.  
  
“ _When_ ,” he hissed, “did you plan to mention this to me?”  
  
The words, the anger, the hurt and distrust, hit Harry like blows.  
  
“I didn’t,” he said softly, getting to his feet. “Will you let me explain why?”  
  
Silence. Harry swallowed again and continued, his voice unsteady. “I was afraid. Afraid it was true, you know? That I only … that it was all only because you were my first. So I wanted to know.”  
  
Snape shook his head and Harry could see him thinking ‘Gryffindor.’  
  
He pressed on. “It was nice. I mean, it felt good. Physically, you know.”  
  
Snape’s eyes closed and his hands curled shut.  
  
“Except … it gave me this kind of sick ache in my stomach. Because I wanted it to be you. It made me miss you. Even more than I was already missing you.” Harry turned away, caught in the memory. “Then it stopped feeling good and it started to hurt.”  
  
“You should go.” Snape’s words were muffled, angry. Harry turned around again. The man was hunched, still facing the fire. The soft glitter from the tinsel and lights on the tree danced over his Slytherin-green robe.  
  
“This won’t work,” Snape went on. “I’ll only … hurt you.”  
  
“No you won’t,” Harry blurted, then thought about it. “Okay. You probably will. But I’ve been hurt before. And I know you don’t do it … well, you do it on purpose, but not on  _purpose_.”  
  
Snape shook his head, but he wasn’t smiling. “You don’t understand me. I will hurt you, very much on purpose, to drive you away. Because … because if this continues …” He swallowed. “If it goes on for too long, it will destroy me when you leave.”  
  
Harry gulped, sick to his stomach at the pain in Snape’s voice. He had to think a moment, though, about the meaning of the words.  
  
“Oh,” he said softly. “That  _is_  what that was all about yesterday, wasn’t it?”  
  
Snape glanced toward him, still unable to look at him fully. “What?”  
  
Harry smiled wryly. “I wasn’t sure. It was because I mentioned him, wasn’t it? Because of the charm. Because …” He looked at the smooth flesh of his hand. “Because he marked me.”  
  
Snape’s eyes squeezed shut. “I was … angry,” he whispered.  
  
Harry nodded. “Does that mean you love me?”  
  
Snape chuckled, a broken little noise. “I don’t think I’m capable of love.”  
  
Harry said, more calmly than he felt, “But it means you want me badly enough that it scares you.”  
  
Snape said nothing.  
  
“I’ll take that,” Harry said, moving close again, touching a spot of coffee on Severus’ wrist, wiping it gently with his fingers. “I don’t expect you to be like me. I know you think I’ll grow up and leave you. What can I say? Nobody knows what will happen. If that worries you too much, you can ask me to leave and I’ll go.”  
  
Snape shook his head, a fierce, hair-swinging shake. “I  _can’t_. That’s the problem.”  
  
“And I’m  _not_  leaving you under my own power,” Harry countered. “Although I see that as a solution, not a problem.” And, though it would have been easier to move in front of Severus, something made him grasp Severus’ arms and turn  _him_ , make  _him_  face Harry and what they meant to each other.  
  
Scowling, Snape searched Harry’s face, whispered desperately, “Don’t waste your life on me.”  
  
Harry smiled. “Don’t worry. I won’t.” He slid his hands up to Severus’ neck. “I won’t waste one second of this.” Then he pulled Severus down to seal his silent promise with a Christmas kiss.   
  
And with his response, Severus Snape too became a reluctant signatory to that pact.  
  


* * *

  
  
After breakfast, unable to wait longer, Harry set his plate, scattered with breakfast remnants, on the floor for Scratch, then flung himself onto his knees in front of the tree. Well, in front of the presents, to be more accurate.  
  
Snape, sipping tea, snorted softly. “Children.”  
  
Harry grabbed a package, turned, and tossed it at Snape, who caught it deftly despite his startlement. “Open this one first.”  
  
A pleasing expression of discomfiture passed over Snape’s face as he unwrapped the small parcel with precision and pulled out a black and gold quill.  
  
Examining it, he said, “Is it ..?”  
  
Harry smiled. “An Ingredi-quill. Dip it into anything and it’ll write out what it consists of. When I saw it I thought of you right off.” He hesitated. “You don’t already..?”  
  
Snape shook his head, startled. “No. They’re quite …” He stopped himself, looked gravely at Harry sitting crosslegged on the floor in his pyjamas. “Thank you.”  
  
Harry grinned up at him. “My turn now.” He attacked the biggest box. Paper flew – he could have sworn he heard Snape chuckle – and he opened the box to see something green. An exquisite, glimmering green. He drew it out … and out … stood up and pulled the most beautiful cloak he’d ever seen (except his father’s invisibility cloak, of course) up against his body.  
  
“Wow.” He looked at Snape.  
  
“ _Not_  an invisibility cloak,” Snape said. “The last thing you need is gifts to help you get into trouble.”  
  
Harry swept the cloak around his shoulders, where it lay soft and heavy and warm. He stroked the velvety surface and glanced at Severus’ satisfied expression.  
  
“It’s beautiful,” he said. “Thank you.”  
  
“Compliments of the wretched season to you too,” Snape said, sipping his tea and trying not to smile.  
  
They went more easily through the next gifts: Harry’d given Snape an antique potions bottle, spelled against breakage, spoilage, cursage and other incidentals, and Snape had given Harry a phial of a rare and difficult to make variant of Dreamless Sleep called Peace.  
  
Harry, holding the tiny bottle of clear liquid and watching it catch the light from the tree, looked up at Snape and said in a small voice, “You noticed?”  
  
“Difficult not to, once I’d slept next to you.”  
  
“It’s not every night,” Harry said. “And most of the time, I don’t even remember them when I wake up.” Still, he held the bottle as if it were a diamond, and Snape shrugged, deliberately casual.  
  
“This will help,” he said, and Harry whispered, “Thank you.”  
  
Harry’s last gift to Snape was a pair of potion-making gloves, enchanted to fit like a second skin and be nearly as sensitive as Snape’s own fingers while protecting him against burns and cuts and other nasty potion-making side effects.  
  
Snape fingered the silky-soft material and harrumphed. “I might take this as a remark on my clumsiness in making potions – ”  
  
“Never,” Harry said.  
  
“ – save that I know even you would not be so foolish,” Snape finished loftily. “Thank you for the gift.”  
  
“You’re welcome.” Harry picked up his last present. Obviously a book. Big surprise.   
  
Snape rose from his seat as Harry unwrapped the book.  
  
And read the title. “Cairo, Past, Present and Future: A Wizarding Guide to the City of the Living.”  
  
Harry rested the hefty volume on his knees, silent, choked with conflicting thoughts and emotions.  
  
Severus moved uneasily about the room, dousing this candle, moving that decanter, reshelving a perfectly shelved book, carefully not looking at Harry, manically avoiding any glance at the boy who sat crosslegged and silent, head bowed, at the foot of the tree, as if he were a worshipper at some bizarre leafy altar.  
  
Finally Harry raised his head, glittering eyes freezing Severus mid-fidget; his face was mobile, unreadable as varied emotions pushed and pulled across it.  
  
Snape set down the Ingredi-quill he’d been toying with. “Did you not like my present?”  
  
Harry laughed, a soft, hurt sound, and Severus instinctively moved closer to him.  
  
Harry glanced at the book. “I …” His tone turned transparent with amaze. “I’ve never received a greater gift in my life.” He laid one hand on the cover, hesitant. “Only I don’t know whether I’m happy or unhappy.” He smiled, shook his head. “Both, I guess.”  
  
Snape stopped beside him and Harry looked up; the naked adoration on his face made Snape’s blood churn, turned him hot with embarrassment and discomfort and fear and unwelcome delight.  
  
“I don’t want to leave you for this long,” Harry said, tapping the book, indicating the four years it represented. “But … you’ll make me, won’t you?”  
  
Somewhere in his soul Snape found a drop of amusement. “It would perhaps be more accurate to say that I should make you regret it if you did not.” The amusement flowered, against all odds, against the dead feeling in Snape’s chest at the knowledge that he was pushing Harry away, that he must. “Sorely though I may be tempted, on occasion, to chain you naked to my bed for however many years of sexual potency are left to me.”  
  
Harry smiled, unexpectedly. “That would be an education, too, I’d think.” He got to his feet, startling Snape all over again with his height, nearly equal to Snape’s.  
  
“But one that would leave you ill-prepared for any acceptable employment in the world,” Snape said.  
  
“Oh, I don’t know,” Harry remarked, tucking the Cairo book under one arm. “I could always become a—”  
  
“That,” Snape sliced the joke into bits, “is not acceptable.”  
  
Harry searched his face, still half smiling. “You know, for a man who’s incapable of love, you sure show all the symptoms.”  
  
Snape said, “I would wish you to make the most of your life and your talents.” That he made no mocking addendum was a sign to them both of how difficult it was for him to say it.  
  
“That’s what you wish for me,” Harry said softly. “What do you wish for you?”  
  
Severus felt his jaw shift and work, even as his throat closed. He could not answer – not the correct answer, at least, though the answer would be true enough – this close. He turned, moved a few awkward steps away, and found that the words came easily when he was not so near to Harry that the boy’s unique, addictive scent made his head spin.  
  
“I wish … that you might come to me, free, a grown and educated wizard, a man who has taken his life in both hands and at least  _begun_  to make something of it that he will not, in his old age, regret.”  
  
He turned, saw Harry swallow, saw that brave damned Gryffindor smile that made him itch to smack off any face it sullied.  
  
“Okay,” Harry said. “I hate it. But I hear you. And I know … with that part of me that doesn’t feel sick at the idea of leaving you … that you’re right.”  
  
“You, obeying me?” Snape forced out the joke. “Will wonders never cease?”  
  
The hurt eased in Harry’s face; he even managed a genuine smile. “Don’t expect me to make a habit of it.”  
  
“Of what? Knowing I am always right, or admitting it?”  
  
Harry huffed. “Shut up or I’ll take your presents back. Prat.”  
  


* * *

  
  
Later that morning, against all odds, Snape left Harry in the library, comfortably ensconced with a book on wizarding culture, Scratch draped across his lap, and a cup of tea – provided in best unobtrusive house-elf fashion by Dobby – and ascended to his laboratory. Holiday or no, he had a couple of potions in progress and couldn’t afford to risk their ruin.  
  
It was the strangest constant awareness at the back of his mind as he worked, knowing Harry was here, in Snape’s home, as if it were  _his_  home too. The fact was too startling for Snape to know if he was pleased about it – and in any case it was only for another day. The boy had commitments elsewhere. Friends. He had friends. And family. And a future. And, in another corner, separate from all the rest, one battered and bad-tempered freelance potions maker.  
  
Snape cursed, softly so as not to disturb the delicate brew he was pouring into a phial.  _Enjoy it while it lasts, you ill-featured, ill-fated, hopelessly besotted old bat. He cannot grow up and remain this uncritical, devoted, passionate, powerful…_  
  
Snape cursed again, then brutally trained his attention on the steps needed to finish his work.  
  
He was sealing a trio of bottles when Harry padded quietly into the room and stopped behind him, watching him spell the corks.  
  
“Come across a word you didn’t understand?” Snape said, disgusted at the lack of bite in his voice. Christ, he adored the stupid brat.  _Fool._  
  
“Several. That’s not why I’m here. Do you mind if I explore the grounds a little?”  
  
“Cabin fever already?” Snape said.  
  
“No. I’m just nosy.”  
  
Snape glanced at Harry’s smiling face, then down at his trainer-clad feet.  
  
“Inclemency paraphernalia in the cloakroom off the hall.”  
  
“Inclemency..?”  
  
“Macs and boots, for the uninitiated. Do try not to track snow into the castle.”  
  
After minor pouting failed to shift Snape from his work – failed to even draw a glance – Harry gave up and went outside.  
  
Snape listened to the quick footsteps fading as Harry bounded down the stairs, and realized, with a jolt, that he was smiling.  
  
 _Ridiculous old fool._  
  


* * *

  
  
It was a bit of a blow to his ego, Harry decided as he slapped clumps of snow onto the growing figure, that he couldn’t lure Severus out for a walk or some other form of outdoor fun.  
  
 _I’m here for two days and he’s already itching to get away from me._  
  
He reminded himself that Severus had to support himself and his castle with his potions, and that some potions, as he well recalled, required precise timing and close monitoring. He reminded himself that it was nothing personal, that it was just the way things were, that it didn’t mean Severus didn’t …  
  
Didn’t what? Love him? Like him? What was going on in that complex and shadowy mind?  
  
Hermione’s question – “Does he love you?” – rose in his mind, his own inability to answer it simultaneously sinking in his stomach.   
  
He brushed accumulated snow from the mittens and continued shaping his snowman, standing sentinel in the middle of the courtyard as a kind of mild nose-thumbing directed at Severus and his damned work ethic.  
  
Scratch had followed him into the courtyard, gotten a cat’s-eye view of the snow, and promptly expressed his disinterest in a snowy romp with a strange, deep-throated meow. He now sat in a fluffed and irritated ball on the top step by the door, his expression one of discomfort and impatience as he waited in the cold for Harry to go back inside. Harry sculpted on, remembering the last time he’d stood out in the snow. Outside Hogsmeade, three days before Christmas holidays.  
  
  
  
“I … it’s not that I don’t like you,” he’d said to Randal, who’d stood with his hands shoved into his coat pockets, head cocked, trying to understand.  
  
People had walked past them on either side, ignoring the two young men in their hurry to get home or at least indoors somewhere before the snowfall that threatened. All the other students had already returned to Hogwarts, but Harry had asked Randal to wait. His behavior had raised expectations in his Ravenclaw friend, and Harry wasn’t looking forward to dashing them.  
  
“There’s someone,” he’d said awkwardly.  
  
Patient, Randal had asked, “Then why’d you kiss me?”  
  
And Harry had blushed and stammered and finally confessed.  
  
“He was my first. I wasn’t sure.”  
  
“You weren’t sure you loved him?” Randal had asked, politely disbelieving.  
  
The question had stopped Harry. “I guess so,” he’d admitted. There was no other explanation for his behavior. It had made him feel even worse.  
  
“I take it kissing me cleared it up for you?” Randal had said, a touch of sarcasm the first sign he’d given that Harry had hurt him.  
  
“I’m sorry,” Harry’d said.  
  
Randal had shrugged. “So am I.”  
  
  
  
Harry rucked up the too-long sleeves of his borrowed coat and stood back, queasy guilt in his stomach. Randal had been a good friend. Harry’d fucked that up. Although Randal had said later that he understood and forgave him, Harry knew better. Then he’d gone and alienated Ron and Hermione, temporarily at least (he wanted to think they were good enough friends to forgive him eventually).  
  
It was as if everything he’d done in the last few months only separated him further from everyone except Snape. And he wasn’t doing it on purpose – at least he didn’t think so. What worried him was that he didn’t really care. All he cared about right now was Severus.  
  
He considered his new frosty friend, who was incapable of returning the scrutiny: He needed the traditional carrots and coal, as well as a hat and scarf.  
  
“Dobby?” Harry called out, on a hunch.  
  
The house elf popped into existence next to him. “Is Harry Potter having fun in his new home?”  
  
Harry looked down at the beaming house elf. “This isn’t my new home, Dobby.”  
  
Dobby’s face plummeted. “But Dobby was thinking Professor sir had instructed the house to accept you.”  
  
“He did, but … I have to go back to school.”  
  
“Oh. But when Harry Potter is done with school –”  
  
“I’m not looking that far ahead, Dobby.” Which was a lie. He’d put his future into tidy compartments – school, university, job – each a stepping stone leading to his ultimate destination. Severus Snape. Harry wondered if that was childish of him, resting so much of his hopes for future happiness on a person, however beloved. All he knew was he couldn’t help it.  
  
Dobby’s face slipped a little further down. “Is Harry Potter no longer wanting to be with Professor sir?”  
  
“I do, Dobby.” Harry sighed. “It’s not that simple. Anyway, that’s not why I called you out here. I have this snowman…”  
  
Dobby dutifully examined it. “Yes sir. It is seeming to be missing something.”  
  
“A face. I need a carrot, some coal, a hat and a scarf. Can you find—”  
  
Dobby’s beaming grin returned. “Dobby is understanding, Harry Potter!” He vanished. Harry blinked.  
  
And Dobby was back. “Will these be serving, Harry Potter?” He held out a battered black hat with a pointed crown. In it were a carrot, a black scarf and some coal.  
  
“Perfect! Thanks, Dobby.”  
  
Harry set to work, and in minutes the snowman was complete, with lopsided hat, a long pointy orange nose, black unblinking eyes and a jaunty trailing scarf. Harry stepped back to admire the finished product.  
  
“There is a certain resemblance, I must admit.”  
  
Severus’ voice behind him made Harry start. He caught his breath and said, as if he’d known Snape was there all along:  
  
“To?”  
  
“To a snowman, of course,” Snape replied.  
  
“What?” Harry bristled. “I’ll have you know this is a perfectly good snowman.”  
  
Snape, arms crossed over the front of his black cloak, curled his lip.  
  
“He has no arms, Potter.”  
  
Harry looked at the snowman. Oops.  
  
Defiant, he lied, “I was … er … modeling him after the Venus de Milo.”  
  
Another shriveling glance.   
  
“Don’t tell me – your guardians didn’t allow you to play in the snow?”  
  
Harry moved as if casually away from Snape and the snowman. “We didn’t get a lot of snow in Surrey. Just as well, too, as I’d’ve had to shovel it all.”  
  
“What  _are_  you doing, Potter?” Snape asked suspiciously.  
  
Harry shoved his hands into his pockets and moved further away. “I think I dropped a mitten over here somewhere.” He pretended to scan the snow-covered ground.  
  
Snape was not fooled. “You are wearing two. How many extras did you feel the need to bring out from my – ”  
  
A snowball smacked into Snape’s shoulder, spattering white wetness across his chest. He blinked, glanced down at it, then glared at Harry, now halfway across the narrow courtyard, wand in hand, prepared to defend himself against any manner of hex.  
  
“Sorry,” he lied to Snape’s scowling face. “I missed my target.” He waited. Grinned. “I meant to hit you in the face.”  
  
Snape’s lip curled and his eyes took on an infernal gleam.   
  
“Uh oh.” Harry began to back away. Snape raised both hands, and a flurry of snowballs rose full-formed from the ground, hovering.  
  
Harry spun, tucked away his wand, and ran for it. He got three steps before a series of snowballs thudded into his back, head and legs.  
  
Pelted all over, Harry sputtered, waved his arms, and dove behind a naked tree. Laughing and gasping simultaneously, it took him a moment to catch his breath.  
  
“Cheat!” he shouted from the shelter of the trunk. “Slytherin  _cheat!_ ”  
  
He peeked around the tree and another snowball hit it –  _smack!_  – inches from his face. He ducked back.  
  
“There is no escape, Potter,” Snape said. Though he didn’t shout, his voice carried clearly to Harry.  
  
Harry inched his face around the tree again, to see an evil smile on the face of the man he’d willingly die for.  
  
“Look up, Harry,” Snape said warmly. Harry did so – and an entire bucket’s worth of magically levitated snow avalanched onto him. He flailed, lost his balance, and fell on his arse, soaking the only part of him that hadn’t been hit by Snape’s enchanted snow-boulder.  
  
“Okay.” He climbed to his feet, brushing himself futilely. “Pax! I give! You win!” He crept out from behind the tree, trying not to giggle.  
  
Severus stood near the steps, a slim pillar of black, arms crossed, one side of his mouth tweaked upward in triumph, with a dozen more snowballs hovering on either side of him, waiting his command.  
  
Harry, wet and shivering and stinging and ecstatic – he’d got Severus Snape to  _play!_  – held up his hands and marched toward Snape.  
  
“I surrender. Name your terms.”  
  
“If you’re surrendering, terms are irrelevant.” A feral gleam in his eye, he uncrossed his arms as Harry approached and the snowballs plunked to earth. “You’re mine unconditionally now.”  
  
Harry stopped before him, soaked, rumpled, red-faced, and smiled.  
  
“Yeah. I think I am.” He muttered, “Big cheater.”  
  
Snape jerked his head toward the doors. “Inside.”  
  
Harry willingly scurried into the warmth of the castle, shedding boots and socks in the vestibule and hurrying barefoot in front of a striding Snape all the way upstairs – but not to the bedroom, attached to which was a small, functional bathroom.  
  
Instead Snape stopped him at a juncture of corridors and gave him a measured shove toward a new door.  
  
“Your lips are a most unappealing shade of blue,” he remarked. “In there.”  
  
Harry opened the door and stopped, breathing in a soapy, piney scent. “Wow.”  
  
He gazed in awe at the most elegant bathing chamber he’d seen besides the prefects’ bath at Hogwarts. A fire burned already, in a narrow corner hearth. Below frosted glass windows, shelves and benches lined the walls, stacked with towels, robes, boxes, candles and bottles. A half-sunken oval tub, full of bubbly, frothy green water, steamed in the center.  
  
Harry set his steamed-up glasses aside, peeled off his sopping clothes and eased quickly into the hot water. His body instantly went limp in thawing gratitude, and he floated a little, arms hooked over the edges of the bath to hold himself in one place.  
  
He blinked up at Severus, said, “Well?” to the faintly blurred image of silent amusement in the doorway.  
  
“Well what?” the reply sounded more startled than snarled. Harry smiled.  
  
“The water’s not getting any warmer. What are you waiting for?”  
  
Snape shut the door and moved into the room. “I was under the impression you had surrendered to me, not vice versa.”  
  
“Well, how can you … er … vanquish me from way over there?” Harry winced inwardly at his own lame attempt at flirtation.  
  
Severus only looked at him for a moment – in which Harry’s stomach sank a little – then raised his hands to finger the top button of his coat. That single motion sent Harry’s thawed blood straight to his groin.  
  
When the coat slid from Snape’s shoulders, followed in precise, unhasty order by his shirt, trousers and smalls, Harry breathed deep of the warm, scented steam and eased his legs apart to accommodate the fullness between.  
  
Snape was pale – paler than usual from the recent venture to the chilly outdoors – but his eyes simmered, and his cock swelled and bobbed even as he moved toward the bath, easing himself over the side and slipping into the green frothy water without so much as a splash.  
  
Instead of advancing on Harry, he sat on the ledge Harry’d discovered ran around the inside of the tub, water up to his sternum.  
  
Harry swallowed. “Well?”  
  
Snape leaned back against the side of the tub and looked at Harry with the slitted, demanding eyes of a cat.  
  
“The vanquished is traditionally at the beck of the victor, Mr. Potter,” he purred.  
  
Harry smiled. He got up and eased through the bubbles until he stood before Snape, watching the steaming green water lap at the man’s nipples, feeling it lap at his sensitive cock.  
  
Snape’s gaze stroked his body and Harry felt a flush blaze up his neck, fiery as a shot of whisky. That stare spoke of hunger, of possession, and Harry shivered inside at the implications.  
  
He eased his body forward until he sat on Severus’ knees, his legs loosely draped around Snape’s, wet hands resting on the man’s shoulders for balance against the gentle motion of the water.  
  
“Yes master?” he said, and the urge to laugh dissipated at the heat kindling in Snape’s black irises. Hands rose up out of the water to cup Harry’s hips, pulling their bodies close, an embrace of delicious pressure on their erections.  
  
Harry squirmed, only partly on purpose, and the wet warm slide of flesh over flesh forced a hum of pleasure from his throat.  
  
Silent, Severus leaned back against the tubside and Harry went with him, his weight pressing his aching cock tighter against Severus’ belly.  
  
Eyes half-lidded with lazy pleasure, Severus wrapped his hands ’round Harry’s arse and squeezed. “Get on with it. I have plans for you that do not include precipitate teenaged orgasms.”  
  
Harry braced himself on either side of Severus’ shoulders and rocked against him; with his cock sliding tight between two wet warm bellies, it was minutes only before he gasped and arched against Severus, hips wriggling as he came.  
  
Severus’ lips twitched briefly in a smile and he stroked Harry’s back while he regained his breath, his forehead pressed to Severus’.  
  
Relaxed and sated, he kissed Severus hard and drew back a little, expectant.  
  
“Feeling better?” Snape hummed.  
  
Harry grinned. “Oh yes.”  
  
“Good.” The word was a threat. One of Snape’s hands slid down between Harry’s cheeks, gently stroking as Snape murmured something Harry couldn’t make out. He made out the effect, though, shivering to feel a warm slick tingle of magic circle and penetrate him.  
  
“Mmm…what was that?”  
  
Another twitch of the lips. “Preparation. Are you gone rubbery all over, or can you use those dangling legs to lift yourself up?”  
  
Harry stood (a bit unsteadily, he had to admit, what with the gently moving water and his own post-orgasmic lassitude) and Snape positioned him. Gazed up at him.  
  
“You may sit,” he said. “As slowly as your undisciplined body can manage.”   
  
Another time Harry might have been annoyed at being simultaneously ordered about and insulted, but the shadow-grin on Snape’s face told him the man didn’t mean it – at least, not the insult.  
  
With Snape’s strong grip on his hips guiding him, he impaled himself.  
  
“Slowly,” Snape said.  
  
Harry stopped, the tip of Snape’s cock stretching his opening. “I thought I was going slowly.”  
  
“I expect you did.” Snape held him up. “I want you to feel this.” He eased Harry down what felt like a millimeter at a time, so slowly, so carefully Harry thought he could feel every ridge and vein of Snape’s cock entering him. He shut his eyes and sank like an aging helium balloon, swaying slightly, hypnotized by the sensation for what felt like forever – until Snape released his hips with a sigh and Harry realized the man was fully sheathed. He opened his eyes, inhaled, shifted.  
  
“Wait,” Snape growled softly. A sharp squeeze to Harry’s hips was followed by gentle stroking of his stomach and thighs, under and above the water, and he leaned against Severus’ chest, feeling himself relax further around Severus’ cock. Filling, satisfying, intimate, but strangely not sexual.  
  
Until Severus began to move. How he found the leverage, Harry couldn’t tell, but somehow his hips began a languid motion that drew him nearly all the way out of Harry, then back, out and back, slowly. Slowly … turning to wonderfully … to exquisitely … Harry breathed deep and felt arousal swell, a rolling wave up his body as Severus held him and moved, patient, focused and torturously, incredibly slow.  
  
The flood of sensation filled his cock again, filled him entirely, and his breaths grew shorter and needier as Severus rocked him.   
  
Harry clutched at Severus’ shoulders. “Oh…” Now each exhalation was a sound of unhinged need. “Oh … fuck …” He wanted to come – to explode – but he was unable, unable to touch his cock, unable to do anything but dangle there, bound by the waves of feeling. Each slow slide of Severus inside him felt bigger, tighter, unbelievably real.  
  
“God … Sever—oh … please …” Burning all over, he forced his tearing eyes open to look at Severus’ face, the slitted, intent eyes, his damp chest pumping, the steam and sweat running through the lank black hair, down his taut jaw, across his tensed shoulders as he held Harry and rode him toward madness.  
  
Harry moaned, a sound like pain, fighting to get air into his lungs, enough air, if not to live, at least to gasp out, “Please … I can’t … god …” He knew if he moved, if he touched his cock, if he did anything, he would shatter.  
  
And Severus stopped. Shuddered. Groaned Harry’s name and wrapped one wet hand around Harry’s erection. Squeezed.  
  
Harry exploded. A tearing cry escaped him and he came and came in fierce throbbing bursts, shaking and starburst-blinded as his whole body seemed to empty itself, as Snape suddenly drove into him fast and furious and deep and sighed out his own release within Harry.  
  
Harry fell limp against Severus, arms splashing helplessly into the water as he gasped for air against the man’s wet neck, feeling Snape’s pulse and his own pulse slamming in counterpoint.  
  
Chest heaving, Severus wrapped weak arms around Harry and eased them down into the water further, waiting for the trembling boy to return to his senses.  
  
Finally, Harry laughed against his neck, a laugh with the hint of a sob underneath, and pushed himself up. Severus eyed the bedraggled wet Boy Who Lived as they gently separated; Harry sighed and replaced himself against Snape’s chest.  
  
“Harry?”  
  
Silence.  
  
“Are you all right?”  
  
The head under Snape’s chin moved, a negative response, as two flailing hands rose up to grab the wet ends of Snape’s hair.  
  
Harry lifted his head and pulled Snape into a drained but appreciative kiss.  
  
“You’re going to be the death of me,” Harry whispered, letting his head flop back onto Snape’s chest.  
  
“And you of me,” Snape said, as quietly. Then shifted to sit up, dumping a startled Harry into the middle of the tub.  
  
“Unless you wish to acquire a new moniker as the Prune Who Lived, I suggest we remove these negotiations to a somewhat drier venue.”  
  
“Prat,” Harry muttered as he clambered out of the tub, followed more gracefully, though no less tiredly, by Snape.  
  
“So much for afterglow,” Snape mocked. Harry picked up a towel and gave Snape a sidelong glance and an arched brow, and Snape was forced to revise his assessment.  
  


* * *

  
  
“I’m leaving, Severus.”  
  
Snape blinked. “What?”  
  
Harry was before him at the castle gates, wearing the cloak Snape had given him; next to him stood a tall young man in Gryffindor red and gold, dark-haired, blue-eyed and damnably handsome.  
  
“I’m off. Thomas and I are moving to Cairo.”  
  
“Thomas?” Snape looked hard at the stranger. The young man nodded at him, then smiled warmly at Harry, who smiled back, shyly affectionate. Different from the way he smiled at Snape.  
  
“Thanks for all your help,” Harry said gaily. “But – oh – here—” He pushed the phial of Peace into Snape’s awkward hands. “I don’t need it any more.”  
  
“What?” Snape repeated, stupidly.  
  
“He doesn’t have nightmares any more,” Thomas said. “He’s fine.”  
  
“I’m off to university,” Harry said, still smiling. “Thomas and I are going together. I’m going to become an Auror. Good-bye.”  
  
Snape opened his mouth, a dozen different denials clogged in his throat, and said nothing.  
  
Harry waved and turned, Snape already forgotten as he gazed at Thomas, who threw an arm across Harry’s shoulder and started to lead him away. The green velvet cloak slipped off Harry’s shoulders, unheeded, and puddled on the ground.   
  
Thomas glanced back at Snape as if in farewell, and the bright blue eyes flashed red. Voldemort red. Snape’s soul shrieked.  
  
The two young men passed through the gate and disappeared.  
  
“Harry!”  
  
  
  
He sat up, gasping, staring until the darkness and familiarity of his bedchamber came clear to his eyes and brain.   
  
Even as he glanced toward the rumpled hollow beside him, he heard Harry’s voice from the windows.  
  
“I’m here.” He turned, his body moonpale in the light from the open curtains.   
  
He came silently to the bed and watched Severus recover control.  
  
“Did you have a nightmare?” Harry asked. Not awaiting an answer he climbed back onto the bed and wrapped himself around Severus as if he had seen his precise fear and knew the cure.  
  
“I’m here,” he whispered. “I love you.” The muscled young arms tightened around Snape’s chilled body, and Harry said, against his ear, “I love you so much…”   
  
It was an admission of weakness, of fear, and Snape felt his own heart swell that Harry trusted him enough to expose his throat in this way. Because he couldn’t speak the words, he used his body, pulling Harry close, stroking him, burying his face in the messy black hair, and hoping Harry understood.  
  
“I dreamed about Voldemort,” Harry said after a while. Snape thought  _so did I, in a way,_  but didn’t say it. When Harry raised his head to look at him, Snape glanced at the bottle of Peace on the bedside table. Harry followed his gaze, shrugged.  
  
“I forgot to take it. I don’t think about nightmares when I’m with you.” He shrugged again. “Until they happen.”  
  
“He is gone,” Snape said.  
  
“I know.” Harry sighed. “It’s in the past. I know. But …” He shrugged again, looked at Snape. “What was your nightmare about?”  
  
Snape shook his head, pulling Harry down into a close embrace – not coincidentally preventing him from seeing Snape’s face.   
  
“The future.”  
  


* * *

  
  
In the morning the two men marched upstairs to the south tower as to their own execution, Harry carrying his Firebolt in an unnecessarily tight grip, Snape hiding his own clenched fists in the folds of his cloak.  
  
At the top, Harry leaned the broom against the wall as Snape searched his arsenal of vocabulary and experience for appropriate words – only to find himself disarmed by the desolated expression Harry turned to him.  
  
Harry flung himself around Severus, holding tight, tighter, while Severus stroked his hair and stared blindly across the battlements, lost in fresh bewilderment.  _Why? Why me? Why now?_  
  
Harry kissed him, hard and clumsy, then backed away.  
  
“Go on,” Snape said. “The red-haired hordes await.”  
  
Harry smiled and climbed onto his broom, glancing back at Severus.  
  
“I’ll … I expect I’ll see you this summer. That is, if …” He waved one hand vaguely.  
  
Correctly interpreting Harry’s hesitation, Snape said, “This is your home, if you so wish.”  
  
Harry’s weak smile grew stronger. “I so wish.” He looked into the leaden sky and swallowed visibly.  
  
“Go,” Snape urged, his voice rough, as if with anger. In another second, it would have been a plea.  
  
Harry clenched jaws and fists and pushed off, soaring away southward at top speed, not looking back.  
  


* * *

  
  
Snape watched until Harry was a dot in the distance, then went back downstairs, slowly, the fingers of one chilled hand trailing along the stone wall as he descended.  
  
The corridors echoed with his footfalls. So quiet. The castle was so vast and silent – and so empty, so empty.  
  
He made his way to his laboratory and sat at his worktable, staring at the precisely arranged ingredients of his next concoction. For an unmeasurable time he sat, still, not blinking, aware distantly that any sudden move or wayward thought might shatter his brittle, unfeeling calm.  
  
Dobby appeared at his elbow with a pot of tea, one cup already poured.  
  
Snape took it and sipped, tasting nothing, but feeling the thin trickle of heat down his throat. He sipped and sipped, until the cup was empty and he thought he could move, perhaps even think, without breaking. His chest shuddered resentfully as he inhaled, forcing his body to life.  
  
“Thank you, Dobby.” But the house elf had gone.  
  
Mechanical, he set chilled fingers to work on his next commission.  
  


* * *

  
  
Harry zoomed his Firebolt to a perfect three-point landing on the frost-rimed grass outside The Burrow. A babble of noise from the house told him the Boxing Day festivities had already begun.  
  
The door opened as he approached, letting out Ron Weasley – along with a higher level of chatter and laughter and the delicious scents of cinnamon and orange and chocolate and more.  
  
“Harry! You’re here!”  
  
Harry smiled. “Last to arrive?” He gestured at the muggle car parked in the drive. Ron glanced at it.  
  
“Hermione’s mum and dad drove. She couldn’t get them to try the Floo.” Ron shrugged. “You okay, mate? You look …”  
  
“I’m fine,” Harry insisted, leaning the Firebolt against the porch railing. “Let’s go in. It’s freezing out here, and I smell your mum’s mince pie.”  
  
He stretched his face into a smile and followed Ron into the warm, bustling, holiday-spirit-filled Burrow.  
  


* * *

  
  
_Dear Severus;  
  
I’m back at Hogwarts, getting ready for my last term. I think I’ll apply to Cairo as well as a couple of other universities, although I don’t know which I’ll choose. If any.  
  
Love, Harry  
  
  
  
P.S. It’s snowing again. It’s so cold here. I never realized how cold Hogwarts is._   
  
  
  


* * *

  
  
“Supper time,” Hermione said, closing her Arithmancy text briskly. Ron and Dean dropped their game of Exploding Snap (being played on top of the Potions homework they ought to have been doing). They got up and Ron turned to call across the Gryffindor common room.  
  
“Harry? Come on, time to eat.”  
  
At the window, Harry handed Hedwig a treat and shooed her back out, closing the window against the light flurry of snow.  
  
“Just a second.” He waved vaguely at his friends, then unfolded the single sheet of parchment his owl had delivered.  
  
  
  
 _Harry;  
  
It is cold here, as well. But summer is coming.  
  
– S._  
  
  
  
“Harry! Come on!”  
  
Harry folded the note carefully and slid it into his pocket. “I’m coming.”  
  
  
  


The End


End file.
